“‘I think you must be mad, Rawdon,’ she said, as coldly as she could.
“‘And if I am,’ he cried, ‘who’s driven me to it? Isn’t it you? making my life a hell, spying on me, chasing me even to my bed at night, ready to pounce on me the moment you get a chance? Oh, you hate me, I know; it’s that other man you want, you’ve had your fill of me. Oh, you false, lying vixen, you’re just waiting till you can get me—catch me asleep, likely; what was you doing in my room that night? The woman who can shoot at a man once can shoot at him twice. Mad, you say I am? No, I’m not mad, but ’tis not your fault that I wasn’t mad long ago.’
“The eldest boy darted across the room at his father, but Rawdon warded him off with the chair.
“‘Keep the brat off me!’ he cried to Ruth. ‘I won’t be answerable, I’ll do him a mischief.’
“He cried suddenly,—
“‘This is what I’ll do if you try to lay hands on me, you and all your brood.’
“He was near the window, he took the pots of geranium one by one off the sill, crying, ‘This! and this! and this!’ and flung them with all possible violence on the tiled floor, where the brittle terra-cotta smashed into fragments, and the plants rolled with a scattering of earth under the furniture.
“‘I’ll do that with your heads,’ he said savagely.
“His eye fell on the cage of mice, left standing exposed on the window-sill. At the sight of these his rage redoubled.
“‘He gave you these,’ he shouted, and hurled the cage from him into the farthest corner of the room.