But he stood still.
‘That dress!’ he said hoarsely.
In very truth she had not thought of the associations of it as she had slipped it on to-night in excitement and anger.
‘You—you know I had it made into an evening dress,’ she faltered.
‘But for this!’
‘I had nothing else to wear.’
He turned from her one minute, then back again, and looked at her with wrathful eyes. He had a wild impulse to force her to stay, to compel her to obey him by the superiority of his physical strength. Was she not his wife, his property, did she not belong to him till death? He almost thought he would get a whip and beat her, beat her savagely. She would love him better he felt certain; he told himself there was more truth than half the world dreamt in the saying that wife-beaters, [p 108] ]always provided they are neither drunk nor brutal, are best beloved by their wives.
But he knew in a calmer mood he would despise himself for doing it, and he felt, too, how imperfect would be the victory.
‘You are going?’ was all he said, and ‘Yes,’ she answered.
Wheels sounded a little distance off, they both knew what it was.