"I mean just that. It would give us a steady income at least."
"But I can't give it up. There's more than money to working. There's being in the work you want to do and are fitted for—"
"Ah!" She turned on him fiercely. "I thought you cared more for your work than for your family. Now I know it. You would keep us poor, just so you can do the things you like to do. And what right have you to think you're fitted for it? Why can't you be sensible and see what everybody else sees—that as an architect you are—"
"Shirley!"
But she said it.
"—a failure."
For a little he stared blindly at her. All other aches were as nothing beside this. . . . Then something within, that had sustained him since he left the office, snapped, gave way. His head and shoulders sagged forward. With a weary gesture he turned and went into the living-room.
That storm, too, passed. It had been more than half the hysteria of shattered hope. She had hardly known what she was saying. Now she remembered his eyes as she had dealt her thrust. She was a little frightened at what she had done. She waited nervously for him to come back to her; always David had been first to mend their quarrels, and Shirley thought her kisses balm to heal all wounds.
But he did not come back. In the living-room was a heavy silence.
At last she went softly to the door. He was standing by the table, still in the broken attitude, with the same dazed eyes. He did not see her.