He had been
exuberant--exultant--his good-humour white-hot and dangerous. Looking
into his brilliant blue eyes with their two sharp points of light, it
would have been hard to tell whether he was laughing or mad with anger.
His moods were like that--too close to be distinguished from one
another with any safety. Christine, who had just come from
interviewing the bailiff, had looked grave and disapproving. She knew
probably, that her disapproval was useless and even disastrous, but
there was an obstinate rectitude in her character that made it
impossible for her to humour him. But Edith Stonehouse and Robert had
played up out of sheer terror.
"You do seem jolly, Jim," Edith had said in her hard, common voice.
"It's a nice change, you bad-tempered fellow----"
She had never really recovered from the illusion that she had captured
him by her charms rather than by her poor little fortune, and when she
dared she was arch with an undertone of grievance. Robert had capered
about him and held his hand and made faces at Christine so that she
should pretend too. Otherwise there would be another row. But
Christine held her ground.
"The butcher came this afternoon," she said. "He says he is going to
get out a summons. And the bailiff is in again. It's about the
furniture. You said it was paid for. I can't think how you could be
so mad. I rang up Melton's about it, and they say the firm wants to
prosecute. If they do, it might mean two years'----"
Robert had stopped capering.
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