He saw his sister-in-law's eyes too fixed on him questioningly. He muttered, "Yes," to her, and then turned roughly on his wife: "What business is it of yours?"
She lay back, and answered gently: "I am so glad." "Really?" he sneered. He cast a sharp glance at her and snarled between his teeth: "Don't gush!"
Then he pushed his plate away, tossed off two glasses of beer, and lay down to rest in the bedroom.
The two sisters remained together, the invalid stretched on the sofa, the other sewing near the lamp. They heard Heppner snoring.
His wife's face was in shadow, but her eyes blazed at her sister and rested with an uncanny expression of hatred on the strong, well-developed beauty of the young girl.
There was a knock at the door. The battery tailor had brought the sergeant-major's tunic, on the sleeve of which he had stitched the double stripes. Ida took it from him and hung it up silently.
The invalid watched her indifferently. A short time before she had been mildly excited with joy at her husband's promotion; he had quite spoilt this feeling for her. Now she was callous to everything.
Suddenly she pressed her lips together and clenched her hands feverishly.
Had not her sister just handled his tunic lingeringly with a kind of furtive tenderness?
Had the scandal already gone so far?