She knew he was in a state of suppressed irritation. The veins stood out on the backs of his hands, his brow was drawn stiffly. Yet she could not help goading him.
“What did you do wi’ that white stocking?” he asked, out of a gloomy silence, his voice strong and brutal.
“I put it in a drawer—why?” she replied flippantly.
“Why didn’t you put it on the fire back?” he said harshly. “What are you hoarding it up for?”
“I’m not hoarding it up,” she said. “I’ve got a pair.”
He relapsed into gloomy silence. She, unable to move him, ran away upstairs, leaving him smoking by the fire. Again she tried on the ear-rings. Then another little inspiration came to her. She drew on the white stockings, both of them.
Presently she came down in them. Her husband still sat immovable and glowering by the fire.
“Look!” she said. “They’ll do beautifully.”
And she picked up her skirts to her knees, and twisted round, looking at her pretty legs in the neat stockings.
He filled with unreasonable rage, and took the pipe from his mouth.