“I told you when I wrote,” she began.
He interrupted impatiently. “Do you think I have time to read your letters? You knew my wishes—and when I returned this morning I heard that you were with Mr. Wharton at the Toyshop—on my soul—a pretty epitome of your life, I think!—with Tom Wharton at a Toyshop!”
“Everybody goes to them,” she answered weakly, “I must do something—this house is unendurable.”
“You do not contribute to its gaiety,” he said fiercely.
She dropped her blonde head into her hands and broke into crying. He turned his back on her again.
“I am so miserable,” she sobbed, “so desolate. Oh, I think my heart is broken.”
“You have remarked it before,” said her husband bitterly.
She sobbed the louder, crushing her handkerchief to her eyes. “You never think of me,” she wailed. “It’s killing me—I think—but you don’t care—no one does. I am utterly alone—since—Harry—died.”
At the mention of his dead son, Sir John swung round on her.
“On my soul, madam,” he said hoarsely, “I will not hear you on that subject.”