“What’s that?” he said.
His eyes unnerved her somewhat. But she steeled herself to repeat her ultimatum.
“Because—I’ve—decided to—to accept.”
Pause. “That’s all,” she added, irrelevantly, as if by way of clinching the matter.
Another pause. The clock tactfully struck in with the announcement of six o’clock. That seemed to break the spell. He rose and made for his hat.
“H’m,” he ejaculated, sharply. “I see. That’s what it amounts to, is it.... Well, you’ll have time to think it over. I’m off to school now.”
He took a sheaf of night-school exercises from his desk and stuffed them in his pocket. Not another word came from him. Catherine was almost hypnotized by his quick, startling movements, so unlike his usual apathy. He strode firmly down the lobby and shut the door after him more noisily than usual. She could hear his footsteps along the street, and he was walking at a pace that was for him unprecedentedly rapid. When he was quite out of hearing she sank down into the chair he had just vacated. The tension of the argument had given her a sense of physical exhaustion. Yet spiritually she was thrilled by a strange feeling of exhilaration: it seemed to her that after an interval of drudgery she was once again being drawn into the vortex of momentous happenings. She was absolutely certain of one thing: she would not give way. If he chose to make her disobedience a “test-case” of the father’s right to inflict his will upon the daughter she would await whatever steps he took with calmness and determination. But she would never give way. She was nineteen, and to her nineteen seemed old age. Things he had said in the course of the argument had annoyed her inexpressibly. They were little things, mostly. Bringing in the case of Nellie Selborne, for instance, was silly and entirely irrelevant. Nellie had paralysis down one side, and existed apparently for the purpose of proving to all other girls how lucky they were. Then again, Catherine disliked intensely his massive declaration that “a girl’s place is in the home.” He had talked about “waiting for the right feller to come along,” and this passive method of getting through life roused all the scorn and contempt in her nature. Also he had talked about her “strumming in a third-rate picture house.” It was typical of him to assume that it was third-rate before he had heard even the name of it. He had been ridiculously unfair....
She went over to the writing-desk where he marked his school exercise books. Something within her said: You are angry and excited now, but you will soon cool down and then probably you will give in to him.... To this she replied passionately: I won’t give in to him.... But, continued the part of her which always told the truth, you will give in to him if you wait till your temper has cooled down.... Better write now accepting the situation, and post it before he comes back from night-school. Then the matter will be really settled. Then you can say to him when he comes in: “It’s no use arguing about it any more. I’ve written to accept the job. The thing’s done now and can’t be undone.”
She wrote the letter as quickly as she could, for the feeling of supreme depression, the feeling that she was doing something regrettable and irretrievably silly, was becoming heavier upon her every second. She was just addressing the envelope after fastening it when she heard the key fumbling at the front door. For the moment a kind of panic fear seized her. He was coming back. He must have turned back before reaching the school. His footsteps down the lobby sounded brutal and unnecessarily noisy. She swung round in her chair and sat awaiting his entrance with the penholder stuck between her teeth. The half-addressed envelope lay on the desk invisible behind her back.... He flung down his hat and coat on the table.
The moment was so tense that Catherine spoke merely to interrupt the horrible silence of it.