“Asleep since nine.”
Catherine took his coat and hat, and put her arm through his as they went into the little front room together. A coke fire glowed in the diminutive grate, a saucepan full of soup stood steaming on the trivet. Murchison sat down at the table that was half covered by a white cloth. At the other end lay his wife’s work-basket, with a dozen pairs of socks and stockings. Her eyes had been tired before the opening of the garden gate. Now they were bright and vital, for love had wiped all weariness away—that heroic, quiet love that conquers a thousand sordid trifles.
“Saturday is always busy.”
“I know,” and she smiled as she poured him out his soup.
“I think we had nearly a hundred people to-night. Thanks, dear, thanks,” and he touched her hand.
Catherine sat down on the sofa, and took up her stockings, seeing that he was tired, too tired to care to talk. Her woman’s instinct was rarely at a loss, and a tired man appreciates restfulness in a wife.
When he had finished, she rose and drew the solitary arm-chair before the fire, and brought him his pipe and his tobacco. Murchison’s face softened. He never lost the consciousness of all she had forgiven.
He drew out the week’s money when they had talked for a while, and handed the three sovereigns to her, keeping only the three shillings for himself. Catherine wore the key of their cash-box tied to a piece of ribbon round her neck. It was Murchison who had insisted on this precaution. Every week he gave the money to her, and saw her lock it in the cash-box on her desk.
“Shall I still keep the key, dear?”
“Keep it.”