“Yes, sir. Will you come into the sitting-room? I’ll tell ’er.”
Jasper went into the sitting-room. He stood on the hearthrug in the attitude of a stranger. The tea-things had not been cleared away, they were still on the table, which was covered with a white cloth showing various grease spots. The tea-things themselves were on a black tin tray with the enamel scratched off in two or three places. There was a loaf of bread on the table, a pat of soft-looking butter on a plate, a pot of strawberry jam from which the spoon had fallen making a red smear on the cloth, and a remnant of stale cake.
The furniture in the room was not ugly, but the whole place had a desolate look. A French novel in a yellow paper cover lay open face downwards on a small table near the hearthrug. Jasper picked it up, glanced at the title, and put it down again with a little movement of disgust.
The door opened and a woman came in. She was wearing a loose and rather shabby brown dress; her hair, which was really a beautiful pale gold, looked unbrushed and uncared for. She wore it parted and in an untidy knot at the nape of her neck. The only neat thing about her were her hands, which were small hands, the nails polished and manicured.
“Oh, it’s you, Jasper,” she said, and she sat down. She did not even offer to shake hands.
“How do you do, Bridget,” he said gravely.
She laughed. “Is that a gentle reminder to me of my manners, or a query as to my health? I’m all right, thanks.”
Jasper stood irresolute. This nonchalant attitude of his wife pained him. She was usually more apathetic.
“Won’t you sit down,” she said politely, “that is if you wish to stay for your usual hour.”
Jasper put his hat and stick on the sofa and sat down on a chair near the table. His eye fell on the tray.