Then Marianne said coldly: "Don't hurry on my account."
He answered, as cheerfully as he dared—that is, not to seem to ignore the conditions: "You'll go to bed just the same, of course?"
Her reply was: "I shall go to bed." Nothing more. She went on to her own bedroom.
Challis could almost have sworn he heard a sob as the door closed. Was it so or not? He could not bear the doubt. He would risk it—go to her, throw himself at her feet, cry out in his misery for pardon for the past, and oblivion; for a pact of hope for the days and hours to come. If he could only have made his decision a few seconds sooner! But he just missed the chance, as Marianne opened her door and came back, stony.
"I forgot to tell you. Harmood has given warning."
"Harmood! Why—what on earth has the woman to complain of?"
"I can't say. I have given her no cause of complaint. She makes no complaint, as I understand."
"Well!—that is extraordinary! However, she's not indispensable. We can do without her. Only you'll have such a bother to find someone else."
Marianne said: "I don't think I shall." And Challis imagined that she referred to some possible servant or useful agency that she knew of. But the thought in her mind was different, as we shall see. Challis recalled her words afterwards. All that this talk of Harmood meant for him then was that a good impulse had been spoiled by it.
He looked at his watch, and found he would only just have time to get to town, get some lunch, and be ready for his appointment, which was an imperative one. He changed slippers for boots, and was ready. With his hand on the open street-door, he called out to his wife: "Good-bye, then! I'm off." Contrary to his expectation, she came downstairs.