Christine straightened from the tea-table she was arranging.
“That's true, of course. But why should the woman do all the adjusting?”
“Men are more set,” said poor Anna, who had never been set in anything in her life. “It is harder for them to give in. And, of course, Palmer is older, and his habits—”
“The less said about Palmer's habits the better,” flashed Christine. “I appear to have married a bunch of habits.”
She gave over her unpacking, and sat down listlessly by the fire, while Anna moved about, busy with the small activities that delighted her.
Six weeks of Palmer's society in unlimited amounts had bored Christine to distraction. She sat with folded hands and looked into a future that seemed to include nothing but Palmer: Palmer asleep with his mouth open; Palmer shaving before breakfast, and irritable until he had had his coffee; Palmer yawning over the newspaper.
And there was a darker side to the picture than that. There was a vision of Palmer slipping quietly into his room and falling into the heavy sleep, not of drunkenness perhaps, but of drink. That had happened twice. She knew now that it would happen again and again, as long as he lived. Drinking leads to other things. The letter she had received on her wedding day was burned into her brain. There would be that in the future too, probably.
Christine was not without courage. She was making a brave clutch at happiness. But that afternoon of the first day at home she was terrified. She was glad when Anna went and left her alone by her fire.
But when she heard a step in the hall, she opened the door herself. She had determined to meet Palmer with a smile. Tears brought nothing; she had learned that already. Men liked smiling women and good cheer. “Daughters of joy,” they called girls like the one on the Avenue. So she opened the door smiling.
But it was K. in the hall. She waited while, with his back to her, he shook himself like a great dog. When he turned, she was watching him.