“Well, if you like to be a cat I can’t help it. What d’you take me for?”
“Giving your own child’s money to a dirty slut! You owed it—that’s what it was—or will be. Go on with you; don’t stand there!”
He had a nasty longing to smite her on the mouth—it looked so bitter. “Well,” he said slowly, “now I understand.”
Yes, that was it—she was all of a piece with something, with that police court, with the tone of the men’s voices, with something unsparing, hard and righteous, which came down sharp on people.
“I thought—I think you might——” he stammered.
“Ugh!” The sound exasperated him so, that he turned to go downstairs.
“You whited sepulchre!”
The door clicked before he could answer the odd insult; he heard the key turned. Idiotic! The little landing seemed too small to hold his feelings. Would he ever have been such an ass as to say a word to Alice, if he had done it? Why! He had never even thought of doing anything!
Giddy from chagrin he ran downstairs, and, clawing his straw hat from the rack, went out. The streets were malodorous from London fug—fried fish, petrol, hot dirty people; he strode along troubled, his eyes very rueful. So this was what he was really married to—this—this! It was like being married to that police court! It wasn’t human—no, it wasn’t—to be so suspicious and virtuous as all that! What was the use of being decent and straight, if this was all you got for it? Someone touched him on the shoulder.