“No, not like the wife of a working-man, who doesn’t keep even one maid, but like the wife of a well-to-do farmer, which she is.”
“You needn’t bite my head off, Peter,” said Rose.
“Your tea’s in the drawing-room,” said Vera—“I asked Weller to put it there ready for you when you came in. Nurse thinks it would be too much of a crowd if you had it up here. Besides, I know you’d rather be alone.”
Peter rose from his seat at the bedside.
“All right—I’ll go downstairs.”
“I didn’t mean now, you old silly,” said Vera, pulling at his coat. “Hang it all, I haven’t seen you the whole day.”
Peter looked down at her hopelessly—at her large, swimming brown eyes, at her face which seemed mysteriously to have coarsened without losing any of its beauty, at the raven-black braids of her hair that showed under her lace nightcap, and last of all at her mouth—full, crimson, satisfied, devouring.... He became suddenly afraid—of her, with this additional need of him, this additional hold on him, which her motherhood had brought—and of himself, because he knew now that he hated her, quite crudely and physically hated her.
“I’m afraid I can’t stay—I’ve got rather a headache ... and I’m going out directly to pot rabbits.”
“That’s an odd cure for a headache,” said Vera. She looked hurt and angry, and he felt a brute to have upset her at such a time. But he could not help it—he had to go, and moved towards the door.
“Aren’t you going to take any notice of your little daughter?” purred Mrs. Asher—“Baby dear, I don’t think your daddy’s very proud of you. He hasn’t been near you since breakfast.”