“Your dinner’s there,” Mrs. Croome called upstairs to Mrs. Huss in tones of studied negligence, and then retired to her own affairs in the kitchen, slamming the door behind her.
The room quivered down to silence, and then Mr. Huss could hear the footsteps of his wife crossing the bedroom and descending the staircase.
Mrs. Huss was a dark, graceful, and rather untidy lady of seven and forty, with the bridling bearing of one who habitually repels implicit accusations. She lifted the lid of the vegetable dish. “I thought I smelt burning,” she said. “The woman is impossible.”
She stood by her chair, regarding her husband and waiting.
He rose reluctantly, and transferred himself to a seat at table.
It had always been her custom to carve. She now prepared to serve him. “No,” he said, full of loathing. “I can’t eat. I can’t.”
She put down the tablespoon and fork she had just raised, and regarded him with eyes of dark disapproval.
“It’s all we can get,” she said.
He shook his head. “It isn’t that.”
“I don’t know what you expect me to get for you here,” she complained. “The tradesmen don’t know us—and don’t care.”