She winced--he always brought in that person.
"Cilia is a pretty girl, don't you think so, mother?"
She got so angry that she lost control of herself. "Do you think so?" she said curtly, rising. "She's leaving on the first of October."
"She's leaving? Oh no!" He stared at her incredulously.
"Yes, yes." She felt she was cruel, but could she be otherwise? His disbelieving tone expressed such terror. "She's leaving. I'm going to give her notice."
"Oh no, you won't." He laughed. "You won't do that."
"Yes, I will." She emphasised each word; it sounded irrevocable.
He still shook his head incredulously: it could not be. But then he suddenly remembered Cilia's depression and her words that evening: "I suppose she's going to give me notice." "No, you shan't do so." He started up in bed.
"I shall not ask you."
"No, you shan't, you shan't," he cried. All at once Cilia moved across his mental vision, her ingenuous eyes looked at him so sadly--he liked her so much--and she was to go? He was seized with fury.