She was very near to tears. The day had been a most terrible one—and her food choked her. The meal seemed to stretch into infinity, the dreary dining-room, the monotonous tick of the clock, and always her husband's scowling face.
At last it was over, and he went to his study, and she to her little drawing-room. In front of her fire, her sewing slipped from her lap and she slept, with her purple dress shining in the firelight, and the rest of the room in shadow about her. And she dreamt wonderful dreams—of places where there was freedom and light, of hard, white roads and forests and cathedrals, and of a wonderful life where there was no travail nor ill-temper; and her face became happy again, and she saw Freddie as he had once been, before the shadow of this place had fallen about him, and in her dreams she was in a place where everyone loved her and she could make no mistakes.
Then she woke up and saw Freddie Comber standing near her, and she smiled at him and then gave a little exclamation because the fire was nearly out.
“Yes,” he said, following her glance, “it's a nice, cheerful room for a man to come into, isn't it, after he's tired and cold with work? I have got a nice, pleasant little wife. I'm a lucky man, I am.”
Then, as she began to busy herself with the fire, and tried to brighten it, he said, “Oh! leave it now, can't you? What's the use of making a noise and fuss with it now?”
Then he went on as she got up from her knees again and faced him, “Look here, we've got to come to an understanding about this business.”
“What business?” she said faintly, all the color leaving her cheeks.
“Why, young Traill,” he went on, standing over her. “I'm not going to have my wife encouraging him in this affair. I tell you I object to him—he's a conceited, impertinent prig, and he wants putting in his place, and I 'll let him know it if he comes near here. I won't have him in the house, and it's just as well he should know it. So don't you go asking him here.”
She was now white to the lips. “But,” she said, “I have told Isabel that I am glad, and I am glad. I like Mr. Traill, and I don't think it was his fault in this business; and, Freddie dear, you know you are not quite fair to him because of his football, or something silly, and I'm sure you don't mind him, really—you don't like Mr. Perrin, you know.”
This was quite the most unfortunate speech that poor Mrs. Comber could possibly have made; the mention of the football at once reminded Freddie Comber of all that he had suffered on that head, and his neck began to swell with rage, and his cheeks were flushed.