"I have saved twenty pounds for you—out of my own money—with great difficulty," she said, with indignant emphasis. "If I were to tell Richard, he would be furious. And I cannot—do—anything—more for you, beyond the allowance I give you. Everything you suffer from, you have brought upon, yourself. It is hopeless to try and help you."
He laughed.
"Well, then, I must try Rachel!" he said carelessly, as he looked for his hat.
"That I think would be the lowest depth!" said Lady Winton, breathing quick, "to beg money from the wife who divorced you!"
"I am ready to beg for money—requisition is the better word—from anybody in the world who has more of it than I. I am a Bolshevist. You needn't talk to me about property, or rights. I don't acknowledge them. I want something that you've got, and I haven't. I shall take it if I find the opportunity—civilly if I can, uncivilly, if I must."
Lady Winton made no reply. She stood, a statue of angry patience waiting for him to go. He slowly buttoned on his coat, and then stepped coolly across the room to look at an enlarged photograph of a young soldier standing on the piano.
"Handsome chap! You're in luck, Marianne. I suppose you managed to get him into a staff job of some sort, out of harm's way?"
He turned to her with a sneer on his lips. His sister was still silent.
The man moving about the room was perhaps the thing she feared and hated most in the world. Every scene of this kind—and he forced them on her, in spite of her futile resistance, at fairly frequent intervals—represented to her an hour of torture and humiliation. How to hide the scenes and the being who caused them, from her husband, her servants, her friends, was becoming almost her chief preoccupation. She was beginning to be afraid of her brother. For some time she had regarded him as incipiently insane, and as she watched him this evening he seemed to her more than ever charged with sinister possibilities. It appeared to be impossible to influence or frighten him; and she realized that as he seemed not to care a fig whether she caused a scandal or not, and she cared with every pulse of her being, she was really in his power, and it was no good struggling.
"Well, good-night, Edith," he said at last, taking up his hat. "This'll last for a bit—but not very long, I warn you—prices being what they are. Oh, by the way, my name just now is Wilson—make a note of it!"