The overwrought wife and mother, with every nerve tingling, turned sharply.
"Oh, yes, that's right—blame me! Blame me for everything! Maybe you think I think this is a happy, restful place, too! Maybe you think this is what I thought 'twould be—being married to you! But I can tell you it just isn't! Maybe you think I ain't tired of working and pinching and slaving, and never having any fun, and being scolded and blamed all the time because I don't eat and walk and stand up and sit down the way you want me to, and— Where are you goin'?" she broke off, as her husband reached for the hat he had just tossed aside, and started for the door.
Burke turned quietly. His face was very white.
"I'm going down to the square to get something to eat. Then I'm going up to father's. And—you needn't sit up for me. I shall stay all night."
"All—night!"
"Yes. I'd like to sleep—for once. And that's what I can't do—here." The next moment the door had banged behind him.
Helen, left alone with the baby, fell back limply.
"Why, Baby, he—he—" Then she caught the little ink-stained figure to her and began to cry convulsively.
In the street outside Burke strode along with his head high and his jaw sternly set. He was very angry. He told himself that he had a right to be angry. Surely a man was entitled to some consideration!
In spite of it all, however, there was, in a far-away corner of his soul, an uneasy consciousness of a tiny voice of scorn dubbing this running away of his the act of a coward and a cad.