The crash of the crockery was followed by silence. It seemed to Constance that she had been struck by a bullet, so confounding were his words. Her husband address her like that? What did it mean?
"Emil," she gasped—"you are ill!"
"Not ill, but tired of you."
"Of me? Your wife? What have I done?"
"Why didn't you consent to move to New York when I wished to go?" he snapped. "If you had, I wouldn't be in this fix, sold out by a pack of filthy Hibernian cut-throats."
"I was ready to go if you wished it, Emil. We will go now—if only you do not speak to me so unkindly."
"It's too late," he replied with a sneer. "What use would it be, anyway? We look at everything differently. We always have."
"You do not realize what you are saying. You do not know what you are saying."
"Crazy, am I? The best thing for you to do is to ask some of your church philanthropists to supply you with laundry work. You're likely to need it. The jig's up, I tell you. We haven't a dollar left."
"Very well."