“She was worried, Dan. And it will be true to-morrow. You—Dan, you didn't tell her it was a lie, did you?”
“I should have, but I didn't. What do you mean, it will be true to-morrow?”
“We are going to be married to-morrow.”
“I'll lock you up first,” he said, angrily. “I've been expecting something like that. I've watched you, and I've seen you watching him. You'll not do it, do you hear? D'you think I'd let you get away with that? Isn't it enough that he's got to support us, without your coaxing him to marry you?”
She made no reply, but went on with a perfunctory laying of the table. Her mouth had gone very dry.
“The poor fish,” Dan snarled. “I thought he had some sense. Letting himself in for a nice life, isn't he? We're not his kind, and you know it. He knows more in a minute than you'll know all your days. In about three months he'll hate the very sight of you, and then where'll you be?”
When she made no reply, he called to the dog and went out into the yard. She saw him there, brooding and sullen, and she knew that he had not finished. He would say no more to her, but he would wait and have it out with Willy himself.
Supper was silent. No one ate much, and Ellen, coming down with the tray, reported Mrs. Boyd as very tired, and wanting to settle down early.
“She looks bad to me,” she said to Edith. “I think the doctor ought to see her.”
“I'll go and send him.”