With eyes even more venomous Major Crespin watched Traherne out of sight. Then he seated himself with a bulky, determined assertion of a right—a proprietor’s right—beside his wife on the broad flat stone.
She took no notice.
“Well, Lucilla!” he said. There was insult in the tone, and there was pain and appeal. The insult was veiled; the pain and appeal were not. But the woman heard the accusation, and was deaf to the cry.
“Well?” she answered indifferently, and without looking at him.
He fumbled for another cigarette, saying, “That was a narrow squeak!”
“Yes, I suppose so,” she said, still more indifferently. It lashed him and he winced, because he knew that her indifference was for him, and not for the accident or for their plight, and because he thought that she had meant him to know that it was. Crespin was wrong there—she did not care whether he knew, or what he knew, and she cared even less what he felt.
“All’s well that ends well, eh?” he persisted, looking at her ominously through gloomy, blood-shot eyes.
“Of course,” she said listlessly.
“You don’t seem very grateful to Providence.” He would not leave her alone.
“For sending the fog?” his wife returned contemptuously.