“Oh,” said Maria again.
There was a second or two of agonised effort at selfcontrol, and then she broke down. Her head dropped farther and farther, until she put her gloved hands to her face, turning away from the two men so that they only saw her shoulders with the shawl across them, shaking with sobs.
“Maria,” said Hornblower gently. “Please, Maria, please don’t.”
Maria turned and presented a slobbered face to him, unevenly framed in the bonnet which had been pushed askew.
“I’ll n-nnever see you again,” sobbed Maria. “I’ve been so happy with the mmmumps at school, I thought I’d mmmake your bed and do your room. And nnow this happens!”
“But, Maria,” said Hornblower—his hands flapped helplessly—“I’ve my duty to do.”
“I wish I was ddead! Indeed I wish I was dead!” said Maria, and the tears poured down her cheeks to drip upon her shawl; they streamed from eyes which had a fixed look of despair, while the wide mouth was shapeless.
This was something Bush could not endure. He liked pretty, saucy women. What he was looking at now jarred on him unbearably—perhaps it rasped his aesthetic sensibility, unlikely though it might seem that Bush should have such a thing. Perhaps he was merely irritated by the spectacle of uncontrolled hysteria, but if that was the case he was irritated beyond all bearing. He felt that if he had to put up with Maria’s waterworks for another minute he would break a blood vessel.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said to Hornblower.
In reply he received a look of surprise. It had not occurred to Hornblower that he might run away from a situation for which his temperament necessarily made him feel responsible. Bush knew perfectly well that, given time, Maria would recover. He knew that women who wished themselves dead one day could be as lively as crickets the next day after another man had chucked them under the chin. In any case he did not see why he and Hornblower should concern themselves about something which was entirely Maria’s fault.