May was a little hurt in her mind. She had hoped Tom would be pleased at her remembering to get something instead of the mutton, and she was silent. In a moment Tom spoke again.
“And I’ve broken a pane of glass in the skylight. That blind is torn to rags. You haven’t been in this morning.”
“I had to take the baby out,” said May; “and there was some shopping to be done.”
Tom suddenly laid down his knife and fork.
“I draw the line at high rabbit,” he said. “I should think this particular one died a natural death some time in June.”
“It’s very hard to get good meat in this weather,” said May; “it won’t keep. But mine isn’t so very bad.”
“Where’s the beer?” asked Tom in his lowest audible voice.
May looked vaguely round the table. She was vexed that Tom should behave like this; and yet, after all, it was nothing.
“I think Sally’s forgotten it,” she said.
Tom sighed resignedly and rang the bell, and sat drumming with his fingers on the table waiting for it to be answered. Nothing happened, and he rang again, this time louder; and soon the shuffling of ill-shod feet was heard on the stairs.