Emilius left off stroking his beard.
"You say I turned him out of the office," he said. "Did he stay with
Edward?"
"Nobody could stay with Edward. You couldn't yourself."
"Ask Victor how long he thinks he'll keep him."
"What do you mean, Emilius?"
He didn't answer. He stood there, his lips pouting between his moustache and beard, his eyes smiling wickedly, as if he had just found out he could torment her more by not saying what he meant.
"If Dan went to the bad," she said, "I wouldn't blame him. It would serve you right.
"Unless," she added, "that's what you want."
And she began to cry.
She cried as a child cries, with spasms of sobbing, her pretty mouth spoiled, stretched wide, working, like india-rubber; dull red blotches creeping up to the brown stains about her eyes. Her tears splashed on to the fine, black silk web of the sock and sparkled there.