“O God, how I do hate you!” she said passionately, glaring at him.
His grin broadened. “I know you do. I shan’t lose any sleep over that. Lots of people have hated me in my time, but no one ever got the better of me yet.”
“I hope you drink yourself to death!” she threw at him.
“I shall dance for joy on the day you’re buried!”
“That’s the spirit!” he applauded. “Damme, you’ve been badly reared, and you’d be the better for schooling, but there’s good stuff in you, by God there is! Go on! Toss your head, and gnash your little white teeth at me: I don’t mind your tantrums — like ’em! I shall keep you here just to pass the time away. It’s a dull enough life I lead now, in all conscience: it would be a damned sight duller if you weren’t here to spit your venom at me every time your liver’s out of sorts.”
“I’ll get the better of you!” she said, her voice shaking. “You’d keep Eugene hanging round you until it’s too late for him to pick up the old threads again. You don’t care whether it’s bad for him, or how miserable you make me! All you care for is getting your own way! You’ve tyrannised over your sons all their lives, and over Faith, too, because she’s a weak fool, but you shan’t spoil my life, and so I warn you!”
“Fight me, then!” he encouraged her. “I know you’ve got claws. Why don’t you use ’em?” She did not answer him, for a soft knock fell on the door at that moment, and as Penhallow shouted “Come in” her husband walked into the room.
Penhallow, third of the Penhallow brothers, was thirty-five years old, and resembled his elder brother, Ingram, except that he was more slenderly built, and looked to be more intelligent. He had the sallow complexion that often accompanies black hair, and he moved in a languid way. He enjoyed the convenient sort of ill-health which prevented his engaging upon any disagreeable task, but permitted his spending whole days following the hounds whenever he felt inclined to do so. He was adept at escaping from any form of unpleasantries, and extremely quick to detect the approach of a dilemma which might endanger his comfort. When he saw Vivian standing stockily in front of the fire, with her chin up, he perceptibly hesitated on the threshold.
Penhallow, observing this, said derisively: “Don’t run away, Eugene! You’ve come just in time to see your wife scratch the eyes out of my head!”
Eugene had a smile of singular charm. He bestowed it now upon Vivian, in a glance which seemed to embrace her as well as to sympathise with her. She felt her bones turn to water, helpless in the grip of the love for him which still, after six years, consumed her. Her lip quivered as she looked at him; she moved instinctively towards him. He put his arm round her, and patted her. “What’s the trouble, little love?”