All her love, her passion, her folly, and heartlessness had ended in this—a mere vulgar marriage row. Row was the word he had used. Just an underbred squabble—they had plenty. They had flung words at each other—the usual taunts of an ill-sorted couple.
She knew he’d come in as usual at night—Sutton behind, with his false air of subservience; Milligan at his side, his eyes roving about for her. She knew she’d put on her freshest dress. She knew. She was a miserable, plastic fool, hopelessly committed. Already she was no longer angry with Edred; only bitterly, sorely pained and degraded.
If she could only travel past caring! But every bitter word of his found its frightful billet in her heart; every foul word pierced like a pointed weapon. Her love was riddled with the cruelest wounds, but not one was vital. She loved him. He had told her to go. Go! She laughed, picking up his pipe and kissing the stem ardently.
The gay rattle and careless chaff ran under her yawning window. She started up suddenly and put on her out-of-door things. She went down the wide staircase thoughtfully, wondering what on earth she should do with the day.
She hailed the first omnibus that came rocking down Piccadilly. She got inside and sat near the door. There were only two other passengers—a middle-aged man and his more middle-aged wife. Pamela watched them languidly, in the mood to study other people. Her own life held nothing now but empty days and distasteful evenings. Dinner-time was coming—with Milligan, other men, perhaps—all the people who somehow made her feel contemptible, passively immoral. Their insults were so delicate, so flattering, that she could not resent them: to resent would be an admission. She just studied the dilemma of the middle-aged woman, who was very nervous, who expressed her preference for trams.
“I’ll go nearer the door. Then, if there should be a spill, I could jump out.”
She rustled along the seat, the stiff folds of her brocaded black skirt seeming to share her terror. Then she peppered the conductor with anxious queries, asking him if he didn’t think the driver was drunk.
“Lor’, mum! he’s drove the ’bus for twenty year,” came the not altogether reassuring answer.
“You think he’s really sober? But, oh conductor”—her voice rose to a shriek as the horses swerved—“I do wish I was on the Underground. I insist on getting out.”
He rang his bell viciously and bundled her off the step. Her husband followed, looking keenly annoyed. Pamela smiled—scenting a marriage row. Then the blinding tears gushed to her eyes and burned there without falling. Marriage row! A vulgar, trivial squabble! She lived in a rain of them.