Juliet Tresham is waiting to receive him, with a deep frown upon her brow. Any unprejudiced observer would see at a glance that she is a lovely woman, but it is the loveliness of beauty unadorned. Her luxuriant golden hair is all pushed off her face, and strained into a tight knot at the back of her head. Her large blue eyes are dull and languid; her lips are colourless, and her ill-fitting, home-made dress hangs awkwardly upon her figure. In her husband’s eyes, all her beauty and her grace have faded long ago. He associates her with nothing now, but weak lungs and spirits, squalling children, badly-cooked dinners, and an untidy home. It is scarcely to be wondered at that she does not smile him a welcome home.
‘You might inquire whether the children are in the right or wrong, before you hit them,’ she says sharply. ‘I told them they might play in the front garden.’
‘Then they must suffer for your folly, for I won’t have them hanging about the place like a set of beggars’ brats.’
‘It’s all very fine for you to talk, but what am I to do with them cooped up in the house, on a day like this? If you had the charge of them, you’d turn them out anywhere, just to get rid of them.’
‘Why don’t you let the girl look after them?’
‘“The girl!” That’s just how you men talk! As if one wretched girl of fourteen had not enough to do to keep the house clean, and cook the dinner, without taking charge of half-a-dozen children!’
‘Oh! well, don’t bother me about it. Am I to have any dinner to-day or not?’
‘I suppose Ann will bring it up when it is ready,’ says his wife indifferently; ‘you can’t expect to be waited on as if you were the owner of Tresham Court.’
‘D—n you! I wish you’d hold your tongue!’ he answers angrily.