"Just? You dare to hint that I don't love my child?"
Very slowly, Susan answered him. What it cost the faithful soul to speak the truth, as she conceived it to be, no male scribe can set forth. To her his question embodied the hopes and fears of all her married life, what she had suppressed so valiantly, so successfully, that he had never been vouchsafed a glimpse of her tormented sensibilities. To her this was the supreme moment when she must speak plainly, or for ever hold her peace.
"You love old furniture, Joe, old china, tapestries, and lacquer cabinets. You love them too well, dear. They have crept between you and Posy, between you—and me."
The dreariness of her voice smote her husband. Had they been alone, he would have melted; but James was present—James, whom he despised, James, whom he knew to be unworthy. Unable to deal adequately with Susan's pathetic indictment, he turned savagely on the young man.
"And you—don't you love old furniture, old china?" He made a passionate gesture, including within a sweep of his arm all the treasures about him. He continued: "Answer me! Don't you love things worth their weight in gold?"
"They interest me, of course. I don't love them."
"Never entered your overcrowded mind, did it, that when closing-time came for me these things would belong to my only child—hey?"
"It may have entered my mind, sir, but I didn't fall in love with Posy because she was your daughter."
"Ho! Tell me, how do you propose to support this young lady after I've given you the sack?"
"For that matter, Mr. Tomlin wants me. You pay me four pounds a week. I'm worth ten to any big dealer."