He shook with a queer desire to startle her by saying "Don't let my presence hinder your packing, my dear." Her crude attempts to remove him from the bedroom were an insult to his intelligence. She would lose that proneness to look through and beyond him, if he said "Don't let my presence ..." for fear of saying it, he shuffled into his worn dressing-gown, and went hastily downstairs; sat in the arm-chair, and looked at the black china cat, and listened to Kathleen's footsteps to and fro in the room above; opening drawers and cupboards; a pause while she folded a garment; movement of carrying it to the trunk. He made an effort to write at the book, but his head swam and he gave up trying. The day dragged on. Once he called for the servant to bring some more coal. Kathleen answered the summons, and attended to the fire abstractedly. Her cheeks were stained a rich carmine.
"Where's Maggie?"
"Maggie? Oh, I gave her permission to go out."
"Why? It isn't her day."
"She looked pale. I thought it would do her good."
"You mean," said Gareth—nearly—"that you sent her out to be rid of her while you pack."
He just withheld the speech; but with a sense that he was all the while being robbed of a privilege. Kathleen's manner was goading him to frenzy. He wanted her to know—know—know that he knew; that he could, if he wished, reveal her every falsehood, make her look the fool instead of himself. As it was, she would leave the house thinking him the dupe; continue always to think so.... Gareth writhed impotently. Somewhere in this old tired conjunction of one and two, was a magnificent effect for the third: at the eleventh hour to fling off pretence of ignorance, denounce the culprits, and claim his—property. "You mustn't! You mustn't!" twanged the last coherent fibre of his brain. But surely any after-forfeits would be worth the paying, just to stamp that superior exalted smile from Kathleen's lips; make her realize the fact of him, his existence and his claims.
She talked rapidly and jerkily at supper, but ate nothing. She might have been talking to anyone. Gareth said, "Can you give me a glass of something hot, Kath, when I'm in bed to-night? I want to be well by to-morrow."
"Yes, of course. I wouldn't go to bed too early if I were you"—no, not while her trunk stood packed in the room!—"or you'll find it hard to sleep."
"... What does that matter to you, since you won't be here?" Some demon surely was prompting him with all these sentences that he might not utter; he threw a swift furtive look towards the black cat with yellow eyes.