It was the bitterest speech he had made to her in the years of their married life. She flushed a little. "I thought you knew that I was going out again immediately after dinner. I left at five with the understanding that I'd be on duty again at 8.30."
He said nothing. He stood looking down at his own hand that gripped the chair back so tightly. Emma sat back and surveyed her trim and tailored self with a placidity that had in it, perhaps, a dash of malice. His last speech had cut. Then she reached forward, helped herself to an olive, and nibbled it, head on one side.
"D'you know, T.A., what I think? H'm? I think you're jealous of your wife's uniform."
She had touched the match to the dynamite.
He looked up. At the blaze in his eyes she shrank back a little. His face was white. He was breathing quickly.
"You're right! I am. I am jealous. I'm jealous of every buck private in the army! I'm jealous of the mule drivers! Of the veterinarians. Of the stokers in the transports. Men!" He doubled his hand into a fist. His fine eyes glowed. "Men!"
And suddenly he sat down, heavily, and covered his eyes with his hands.
Emma sat staring at him for a dull, sickening moment. Then she looked down at herself, horror in her eyes. Then up again at him. She got up and came over to him.
"Why, dear—dearest—I didn't know. I thought you were satisfied. I thought you were happy. You—"
"Honey, the only man who's happy is the man in khaki. The rest of us are gritting our teeth and pretending."