Geoffrey did not move. He stood with his hands thrust deep into his pockets, his head drooping forward on his breast, an air of weariness and depression in every line of his figure. For a minute there was silence, then he spoke, slowly, and with frequent breaks, as though considering each word as it came—
“That is true.—I was to blame.—I should have waited, as you say.—It shall not occur again, Joan. I apologise.”
Esmeralda looked at him. The fire died from her eyes, her lips trembled. Quick to anger, she was equally quick to penitence, and a soft word could melt her hardest mood. She made a very lovely picture at that moment, but her husband’s back was still turned. He kept his head rigorously turned aside as he crossed to his desk and seated himself on his swivel chair.
“I have ordered the car for eleven, as you wished.”
“Thank you.”
Joan knew herself to be dismissed, but she had no intention of obeying. For her impetuous nature half-measures did not exist, and a peace that was not peace with honour seemed unworthy the name. She leaned over her husband’s desk, facing him with earnest eyes.
“Geoffrey! Why were you so cross? It was unreasonable. I shall do quite well at my stall. People are sick to death of cushions and cosies, but they will snap at my beautiful things from abroad, which they don’t often have a chance of buying.”
“I am sure of it.”
“Then why—why—? What on earth put you into such a bait?”
Geoffrey put down his pen and drew a long sigh. It was easy to see that he dreaded a discussion, and was most unwillingly drawn into its toils.