She heard herself and marvelled. Would the heavens fall? Would the ground open and swallow her up? She hurried away before her courage failed.
In the bath-room she slipped the bolt and turned the key, and sighed a sigh of relief. Alone—she was alone. She turned on the water. A reckless daring seized her; let the hot water run, let it run until the bath was full to the brim; for once she would have an injuriously hot bath; she would wallow in it, stay in it, take her time. She never got enough hot water; now she would take it all—let his bath be tepid for once, let him wait on her convenience, let him come thumping at the door, coarse, overbearing, foolish creature!
What a life—and this was marriage! She thought of Colonel Ogden, of his stertorous breathing, his habits; he had a way of lunging over on to her side of the bed in his sleep, and when he woke in the morning his face was a mass of grey stubble. Why had she never thought of all these things before? She had thought of them, but somehow she had never let the thoughts come out; now that she had ceased to sit on them they sprang up like so many jacks-in-the-box.
And yet, after all, her James was no worse than other men; better, she supposed, in many respects. She believed he had been faithful to her; there was something in that. Certainly he had loved her once—if that sort of thing was love—but that was a long time ago. As she lay luxuriously in the brimming bath her thoughts went back. Things had been different in India. Joan had been born in India. Joan was thirteen now; she would soon be growing up—there were signs already. Joan so quiet, so reserved—Joan married, a year, five years of happiness perhaps and then this, or something very like it. Never! Joan should never marry. Milly, yes, but she could not tolerate the thought of it for Joan. Joan would just go on loving her; it would be the perfect relationship, Mother and Child.
"Mary!"
"What is it?"
"Are you going to stay there all day?" The handle of the door was rattled violently.
"Please don't do that, James; I'm still in my bath."
"The devil you are!" Colonel Ogden whistled softly. Then he remembered the date and smiled. "Poor old Mary, such a damned snob, poor dear—oh well! We Routledges!"