For those fourteen days she was richly fed with the delicacies she had foretold, and when Morton went away he left her hungry. Irritation came with the pangs, and the old anger against herself, against him and all the world. Neville offended her with indiscreet remarks, Grace dared to suggest she was not well, and Bessie threatened to give notice.
"What for?" Theresa was sitting in her old place on the kitchen fender, and Bessie was wandering, felt-shod, in apparent aimlessness.
"Your temper always was a bit awkward, Miss Terry. D'you remember when you had your clean clothes? We'd all try to keep clear of you for an hour or two, and it would pass off, but for this last month—well! I've never known when you were going to flare, and I haven't pleased you once."
"That's your fault. You needn't blame me. Oh, Bessie, I am a bad-tempered wretch! Don't take any notice of me. Just be kind!"
"It's 'ard sometimes, Miss Terry dear."
"I know. I know. But you've got to go on loving me. I can't live unless people like me—and, anyhow, you can't help it!"
"But you shouldn't take advantage, Miss Theresa."
"It is rather mean, isn't it?" she said thoughtfully; "but, you know, Bessie, I have a hunger that's never satisfied."
"If it's for something 'olesome——"
"But it isn't. It's just to be made a fuss of."