“What in hell are you talking about?” France tried to thunder, but his breath was so short that he could only splutter. “How dare you —”
“You never pay for your clothes until you have been summonsed a dozen times, why should I?”
“But I have to pay in the end! How dared you? I know how women can get on with a little money. Do you think I don’t know anything about ’em? Extravagant as the devil, all of you, but able to do on half what it costs a man to turn himself out, all the same. What are maids for? Every woman could make her own clothes if she tried. I told you—My God! My God! If my word ain’t law—a hundred pounds!”
He was waving his arms, and Julia moved out of their reach, although she continued to look him in the eyes. His were bloodshot. “I shall have everything I want, or need, so long as I live with you,” said his wife, deliberately. “If you don’t want to pay for my clothes you can put me out. I could earn my living. Ishbel would teach me to trim hats.”
“You—you—”
France sat down, his mouth hanging open. Then with a curious instinctive movement he covered his face with his hand. When he removed it, his face, although still red, was closed and hard, and his eyes shone with a new desire.
“You’ve got a will of your own, young lady.”
“I have!”
“Well, by God, I’ll break it.”
“Try it.” Julia shook out her shimmering train.