“Very well,” said he. “I 'm glad my legal wife is not in gaol. I want her to believe that I 'll do my best to forget it; also, that, as far as my means allow, she will have comfort and opportunity to try to forget it, too.”
Not a muscle of her drawn face relaxed.
“I'm not going to have you or any one else fooling round where I live,” she said. “I'm not going to be preached to or converted. I 've had enough of it where I've come from. As for you, I hate you. I've always hated you, and if you have any decency, you 'll never let me see your face again.”
“I won't,” said John, shortly, and with this the edifying conversation came to an end.
The cab lumbered through the sunny thoroughfares of the great city, now busy with folks afoot, in trams and omnibuses, going forth to their labour; and John, looking out of the window, fancied they were all touched by the glamour of the summer morning. Every human soul save the woman beside him seemed glad to be alive. She sat rigid, apart from him—as physically apart as the seat would allow, and apart from the whole smiling world. She had her being in terrible isolation, hate incarnate. When by any chance their eyes happened to meet, he turned his aside swiftly and shivered with unconquerable repulsion.
When the cab drew up at the house in Smith Street, the door was opened, and a pleasant-faced woman and a man stood smiling in the passage. Mrs. Risca brushed past them into the dining-room, bright with daintily laid breakfast table and many flowers. The latter, John, at Herold's suggestion, had sent in the evening before.
“You see,” said John, entering, “we 've tried to prepare for you.”
She deigned no glance, but slammed the door.
“Who are those people?”
“A married couple whom I have engaged to live here. The woman, Mrs. Bence, will do for you. The man goes out to his work during the day.”