“Hullo,” he grunted. “What time is it?”
“Oh, you're awake, are you?” scornfully.
“Certainly. Have I been dozing? What's there to laugh at, my dear?” he mumbled, arising very unsteadily. “Where's Pen?”
“She's gone. She's left the house,” she said, recurring dread and anxiety in her voice. A glance at the darkness outside brought back the growing shudders.
“What—what d' ye mean?” demanded he, bracing up with a splendid effort.
“She's left the house, that's all. We quarrelled. I don't know where she's gone. Yes, I do know. She's gone to Shaw's for the night. She's with him. I saw her going,” she cried, striving between fear and anger.
“You 've—you've turned her out? Good Lord, why—why did you let her go?” He turned and rushed toward the door, tears springing to his eyes. He was sobering now and the tears were wrenched from his hurt pride. “How long ago?”
“An hour or more. She went of her own accord. You'll find her at Shaw's,” said her ladyship harshly. She hated to admit that she was to blame. But as her husband left the room, banging the door after him, she caught her breath several times in a futile effort to stay the sobs, and then broke down and cried, a very much abused young woman. She hated everybody and everything.