"I wish sometimes you would forget me," said he.
"Ha, ha, ha!" She flung herself back in her chair, and laughed aloud, her hideous vulgar laugh. "For once in our lives we are agreed. I wish that, too. But I can't, you see—I can't. You're always there, and I'm always there!"
"You! you!" Darkham took a step towards her; his face was convulsed. "You," he muttered, "always you!" His voice, his gesture, were menacing.
The idiot on the hearthrug, as though gathering into his poor brain something of what was going on between his father and his mother, here writhing round upon the rug, threw himself upon the latter. He embraced her knees with a close, soft clasp. He clung to her. Every now and then he glanced behind him at his father, his dull eyes angry, menacing. His whole air was one of protection; short barking cries came from him, hideous to hear.
Mrs Darkham bent down to him, and caught the beautiful soulless face to her bosom, wreathing upon it sweet reassuring words. The idiot, mouthing, slaps her quietly, incessantly, on the shoulder. Darkham watches them—the mother's heavy, coarse endearments, the boy's vacant affection, with his mouth open—and from them presently Darkham turned away with an oath. A shudder of disgust ran through him. "Great heavens! what a home!"
His wife had looked up for a moment, and had seen the disgust. It was fuel to an already very hot fire.
"Go!" she cried violently. She had the boy's head pressed to her breast, keeping his eyes against her that he might not see her face, perhaps, which now was frightful. "Go! leave us! Go where you are welcome! Leave us! Leave your home!"
"My home!" he paused, but always with his eyes on hers. "My home is a hell!" said he.
He went out then, closing the door softly behind him.
But when he had stepped into his brougham he gave himself full sway. As the wheels rolled over the gravel his thoughts surged and raged within him.