“That’s the end of that,” said Williams in a quiet, satisfied voice. “Stop that howling, Elsie. You didn’t really suppose that I didn’t know what was going on?”
She sobbed and would not answer.
There was a long silence, and at last Elsie, face downwards on the sofa, began to feel frightened and curious. She bore it as long as she could, and then looked up.
Her husband was gazing out of the window, in which a potted aspidistra stood upon a wicker stand between soiled white curtains.
At the slight movement that she made he turned his head. “Elsie, tell me. Did you really mean what you said, that you’re in love with that boy?”
To her incredulous surprise, his voice had become hoarse and almost maudlin.
“You only said it to make me angry, didn’t you?”
In a flash Elsie saw the wisdom of allowing him at least to pretend to such a belief. “Perhaps I did,” she said slowly. “Anyway, it’s true enough that we aren’t particularly happy together, and never have been. And I meant what I said about a separation, right enough, Horace.”
“You won’t get one,” said Williams, and his voice had become vicious-sounding once more. “And remember what I’ve said—that fellow is never to set foot in here again, and you and he are not to meet in future.”