'If you do, you needn't come back. Do you hear? You needn't come back!'
He turned, and with a sort of strut went out the front door.
She started to follow. She did come as far as the portières. Henry had a glimpse of her, her face red and distorted.
She turned back then, and seemed to be picking up the room. He could hear sniffing and actually snorting as she moved about. There was a brief silence. Then she crossed the hall, a big imposing person—even in her tantrums she had presence—and went up the stairs, pausing on the landing to pick up the object she had thrown. Her solid footfalls died out on the thick carpets of the upper hall. A door opened, and slammed faintly shut.
Silence again.
Henry found that he was clutching the arms of the chair.
'I must relax,' he thought vacantly; and drew a slow deep breath, as he had been taught in a gymnasium class at the Y.M.C.A.
He brushed a hand across his eyes. Now that it was over, his temples were pounding hotly, his nerves aquiver.
It was incredible. Yet it had happened. Before his eyes. A vulgar brawl; a woman with a red face throwing things. And he was here in the house with her. He might have to try to talk with her.
He considered again the possibility of slipping out. But that butler had taken his name up. Cicely would be coming down any moment. Unless she knew.