"And you got it," she said, still ignoring him.
He glowered again. Then he came unsteadily forward. He leaned on the table with one hand, and with the other jerked at the table drawer to get a knife to cut bread. The drawer stuck because he pulled sideways. In a temper he dragged it, so that it flew out bodily, and spoons, forks, knives, a hundred metallic things, splashed with a clatter and a clang upon the brick floor. The baby gave a little convulsed start.
"What are you doing, clumsy, drunken fool?" the mother cried.
"Then tha should get the flamin' thing thysen. Tha should get up, like other women have to, an' wait on a man."
"Wait on you—wait on you?" she cried. "Yes, I see myself."
"Yis, an' I'll learn thee tha's got to. Wait on me, yes, tha sh'lt wait on me——"
"Never, milord. I'd wait on a dog at the door first."
"What—what?"
He was trying to fit in the drawer. At her last speech he turned round. His face was crimson, his eyes blood-shot. He stared at her one silent second in threat.
"P-h!" she went quickly, in contempt.