“Was there no school to-night?” she asked, with an effort to appear perfectly casual.
“I’m not going,” he snapped curtly, and took down the red-ink bottle from the corner of the mantelpiece. That meant he was going to spend the evening marking exercise books.
She was thoroughly frightened. Her mother’s tempers and tirades had never frightened her, because she was used to them and knew them intimately, as a doctor knows the illness of a familiar patient. But her father was normally so quiet and placid and mild-mannered: she had never seen him in a temper, although when she was a little girl, boys who were in his class at school had told her that on rare occasions he got “ratty.” But she had never known him in such a condition. In this phase he was a complete stranger to her. And she was apprehensive, as she would have been if a stranger had entered the house when she was alone.
He came to the desk to get his exercise books. She thought at first he was going to strike her. But he merely leaned over her and lifted the lid. As he did so he must have seen the half-addressed envelope lying on the top. But he did not say a word. His silence was unnerving.
Always he used the desk for marking exercise books. But this time he arranged the pile of books and the pen and ink on the dining-table.
“You can use the desk,” he said curiously, “if you’re wanting to.” His politeness, his unusual solicitude for her comfort, was horrible! Normally, if she had been at his desk, he would have said: “Now look here, Cathie, it’s too bad of you to want to use my desk when I want it. After all, it’s my desk. You’ve got all the day to use it when I’m out. Can’t you use the table?”
She would have understood a speech like that. But for him to say so thoughtfully, so obsequiously, “You can use the desk if you’re wanting to,” was charged with all the nameless horror of the unprecedented.
It was half-past six. The clock struck. He was assiduously and seemingly quite normally putting red-ink ticks and crosses on algebra sums. Yet she knew that the atmosphere was very far from being normal. She took a book from the shelf and sat down in the chair by the fire, but it was difficult to read. She could hear the ticking of the clock and the steady scratching of his pen, and flipping of pages. He went on for hours. When he had finished one pile of books he went to his desk and fetched out another. Then again, if he had not done so the first time, he must have seen the envelope with its incomplete address. But he went on with his work at the table. Supper time came, but he made no sign of clearing away his books. And then his surliness and sulkiness, whichever it was, ceased to frighten her, but began to annoy her acutely.... The last post went at eleven-thirty. Come what might she would post that letter. At five minutes past eleven she went over to the desk with the intention of finishing the address. She had got as far as the “p” in “Upton” when she saw that he was regarding her intently. As soon as he saw that she had noticed his glance he put down his pen and swung back on his chair.
“Now then, Cathie,” he began brusquely, “this matter’s got to be settled.... You understand. No nonsense. What’re you going to do?”
She bit the end of the penholder.