“You may eat without me,” I called out in a clear voice. “I do not need any food.”
“The devil you don’t!” There was a pause.
“But—What on earth is the matter with you, my dear girl. Of course you must eat—what’s the matter? Are you angry about anything?—Damn it! what kind of behaviour is this? Open the door.”
“I do not intend to open the door, Maurice, until—I have come to a decision. You had better go away and not waste your breath speaking to me.”
He wasted a good deal more breath, however, before he went away. The next sound was the pop of a champagne cork hitting the ceiling, and the little water-fall rush of wine into a glass. Afterwards the boy was roughly and loudly told to “Hambeela and get out.” Later a knife and fork clattered on plates, and there were more pops and water-fall rushes. At length a silence. The scent of a cigarette crept into the room.
“What now?” I wondered dully. Having finished considering the problem of the future with my reflection, I went and sat on the large white bed which no longer had any terrors for me. I heard the front door being locked, then steps across the room to my door once more.
“Is this a game, Deirdre?”
I did not answer.
“If you do not unlock the door I will break it in!” he said in the same loud bullying voice he had used to the boy, but which did not alarm me at all. I knew now that it was a coward’s voice—a coward’s and a liar’s: my husband’s!
I looked at the stout, unpainted deal door and then at some kaffir curios fastened to the wall on either side of it in rather picturesque groups. There was quite a collection of strangely shaped knives and assegais.