“She’s a wretched, drunken old creature,” she said.
“But, damn it all, why shouldn’t she be?” he cried. “What’s that got to do with it? You know plenty of people who drink, but you don’t suggest condemning them to servitude for life, do you?”
“If you want to run the house, you can,” she said. “You can settle this now. Jennie won’t finish that floor, and I certainly won’t.”
“Then I will,” he said, and he did. Andrée hated him for that; she was not too aloof to be unconcerned with what Jennie would think and say of that performance.
They had lunch in absolute silence; and yet, little by little, they were weakening. They were neither of them quarrelsome or resentful, and they had a marked respect for each other’s obstinacy. One hour more would probably have seen them reconciled and laughing, if Tomlinson and Bucks hadn’t appeared. These comrades were more than Andrée could endure; she had in the beginning made a frigid attempt to be polite on Al’s account, but her politeness was neither desired nor understood. Tomlinson was a big, stout, brutal fellow with a jaw shaved blue; he didn’t hesitate to express his opinion of Al’s mode of living, and he did it profanely.
“How the hell you expect to have any influence?” he shouted. “You preach one thing and you practise another. You and your —— flat and your servants and your —— fine clothes!”
He was a professional Socialist, a politician; he was honest enough in his aims, but quite otherwise in his methods. He had to consult Al frequently, because Al had a considerable personal following in various clubs and centrals, and was quicker and more intelligent than he. He admired Al; he told him frankly enough of his shadiest transactions, because Al, although tiresomely honourable, knew life and was not squeamish. He wanted him now to accept a nomination on their ticket, which Al refused. He had a great many reasons for refusing and Tomlinson a great many for his accepting; it was a very loud and furious argument, although neither of them was really angry.
Bucks didn’t enter into it. He was a bald, scholarly little man with a full brown beard, a sort of secretary and mentor to Tomlinson. He rarely talked; he sat and smiled and watched, and was ready to give data at any moment. Andrée would have rather liked him for his mildness and courtesy, if his collars had been cleaner; she was not constituted to rise above that.
She shut herself into her room while they stayed this day; every sound of that loud discussion reached her, and filled her with rage and disgust. And then, to cap it—
“It’s your wife!” shouted Tomlinson. “That’s what it is! Your damn society lady with her fine airs—that’s what’s ruining you!”