“My husband has just come from abroad,” she explained, deferentially and apologetically, “and we sha’n’t be wanting any more at tea-time. We’ll have tea a little earlier, and you can keep the water hot for Miss Clara.”
“Yes, mum.” Amy disappeared.
“Did you see the smudge on her cheek?” asked Rosina, despairingly. “She can’t even dust her face.”
While Rosina was speaking, her husband fretted under her conversation; the awkward silence that ensued when she ceased made him wish she would go on talking.
“How is business?” she asked, finding him dumb.
He suppressed a grimace. “Pretty fair. You know I’ve always got as much to do as I care for.”
“You know what I’ve been thinking?” Rosina replied, in a softened and more confidential tone. “You ought to make enough to be able to retire one day. Why should you always live away from me?—it’s as bad as marrying a drummer. At No. 49 there’s one—a commercial traveller they call them in England—and his wife tells me—it’s the house with the striped linen blinds—she doesn’t see him half a dozen times a year, and you’re getting almost as scarce, particularly this year.” She dropped into a chair, finally dismissing her tentative attitude.
This seemed a favorable opening at last, so her husband plunged into it.
“You haven’t been out of town yet?” he began.
Rosina bounded wrathfully from her chair.