Emily sat in a heap, her fat little feet stretched out before her, the cigarette dangling limply from her lips. She was looking round the room with a blank look in her eyes, her mind far away.
Cora still stood against the wall, her face twisted in a mask of frozen terror. She did not look up as George entered. The room was silent, and he distinctly heard the rumbling of her insides. She coughed nervously, as if to hide the sound, but George knew how frightened she was.
Poncho closed the door after George. He seemed startled to see him again.
George put the tray on the table. He was surprised to find how indifferent he was to all this. He felt cold, pitiless, and he realized then what real hatred meant. The discovery shocked him.
“Will you have some?” he asked vaguely, looking round. No one said anything, and he looked helplessly at Emily for guidance.
“I want a cup,” she said. “Never mind about anyone else.” He poured out the tea and handed the cup to her.
“I think perhaps… I’ll have a cup myself,” he said apologetically.
Emily stirred her tea, added sugar and sipped. Then she nodded to George. “It’s good tea.”
“Don’t you think?” Max said, glancing at Cora.
Emily’s hard little eyes snapped. “We don’t have to talk to her,” she said. “It’s a question of how it’s to be done.”