"Bother the books. I'll carry them."
"You'll do nothing of the sort."
They walked together in silence till the station doors were in sight. He meant to go with her all the way to Putney, carrying the books.
"I wish," he said, "I knew what would really please you."
"You do know," she said.
A moment passed. Tanqueray stopped his stride.
"I'll go back and beg her pardon—now."
She gave him her hand. He went back; and between them they forgot the books.
Though it was not yet ten the light was low in Rose's bedroom. Rose had gone to bed. He went up to her room. He raised the light a little, quietly, and stood by her bedside. She lay there, all huddled, her body rounded, her knees drawn up as if she had curled into herself in her misery. One arm was flung out on the bed-clothes, the hand hung cramped over a fold of blanket; sleep only had slackened its convulsive grip. Her lips were parted, her soft face was relaxed, blurred, stained in scarlet patches. She had cried herself to sleep.
And as he looked at her he remembered how happy she had been playing with Jinny's baby; and how his brutal words had struck her in the hurt place where she was always tender.