Eve visited the flat alone, and made what arrangements were needful for moving their few belongings. It was a sunny little flat, and with adequate appointments would have looked very charming. The small amount of furniture they possessed, however, seemed painfully inadequate spread over the various rooms.
On the day of the move she worked like a galley-slave to put the place in agreeable order. She felt somehow that it was a great occasion, and that when Wynne returned from the theatre he would feel likewise. Together, perhaps, they would have a glorious talk about their nearing future, and a little house-warming of two.
But she was disappointed, for Wynne made no comment when he came in.
“My posters are out,” he cried. “Have you seen ’em?”
She shook her head.
“I haven’t had a chance. I’ve been busy here all day getting straight.”
She looked tired and rather grubby—her hair was tumbled, and her hands patched with floor-stain. For some reason her untidiness irritated Wynne. The girls at the theatre were smart and fresh, and their clothes were pleasant to see. A man expects his wife to be always at her best.
“Um!” he remarked. “You look in rather a pickle.” His eyes wandered round the room: “Seems very bare, doesn’t it?”
It seemed bare to her, too, but she would have taken it kindly if he had not said so.
“With some curtains it would be better—and a few more chairs.”