‘Did she cry in the night?’ inquired Jane, with sympathy.
‘Of course she did! Hasn’t she a right to?’
‘And then Mr. Byass cut himself with his razor?’
‘Yes. And he said it was because he was woke so often, and it made him nervous, and his hand shook. And then I told him he’d better cut himself on the other side, and it wouldn’t matter. And then he complained because he had to wait for breakfast. And he said there’d been no comfort in the house since we’d had children. And I cared nothing about him, he said, and only about the baby and Ernest. And he went on like a beast, as he is! I hate him!’
‘Oh no, not a bit of it!’ said Jane, seeing the opportunity for a transition to jest.
‘I do! And you may go upstairs and tell him so.’
‘All right; I will.’
Jane ran upstairs and knocked at the door of the parlour. A gruff voice bade her enter, but the room was nearly in darkness.
‘Will you have a light, Mr. Byass?’
‘No—thank you.’