The sight of him, with his air of satisfaction and importance, proved an unexpected tonic to her strength. It was as though he had brought into the room, marshalled behind him, all the horrors of her marriage, and she marvelled and shuddered anew at the thought of the years of that sufferance.
“Well, I'm back,” he said, “and we've made a great killing, as I wrote you. They were easier than I expected.”
He came forward for the usual perfunctory kiss, but she recoiled, and it was then that his eye seemed to grasp the significance of her travelling suit and veil, and he glanced at her face.
“What's up? Where are you going?” he demanded. “Has anything happened?”
“Everything,” she said, and it was then, suddenly, that she felt the store of her resolution begin to ebb, and she trembled. “Howard, I am going away.”
He stopped short, and thrust his hands into the pockets of his checked trousers.
“Going away,” he repeated. “Where?”
“I don't know,” said Honora; “I'm going away.”
As though to cap the climax of tragedy, he smiled as he produced his cigarette case. And she was swept, as it were, by a scarlet flame that deprived her for the moment of speech.
“Well,” he said complacently, “there's no accounting for women. A case of nerves—eh, Honora? Been hitting the pace a little too hard, I guess.” He lighted a match, blissfully unaware of the quality of her look. “All of us have to get toned up once in a while. I need it myself. I've had to drink a case of Scotch whiskey out West to get this deal through. Now what's the name of that new boat with everything on her from a cafe to a Stock Exchange? A German name.”