"He is always
looking for it and thinking he has found it. And except for Constance
he has always been mistaken."
"Thank you."
"I wasn't thinking of you," Christine explained. "There have been so
many of them--and all so terribly expensive--never cheap or
common----"
They were dragging the carpet out into the landing. Their voices
sounded louder and more distinct.
"I could bear almost everything but his temper," Edith persisted
breathlessly. "He's like a madman----"
"He's ill--sometimes I think he's very ill----"
"Oh, you've always got an excuse for him, Christine. You never see him
as he really is. I can't think why you didn't marry him yourself. I'm
sure he asked you. Jim couldn't be alone with a woman ten minutes
without proposing. And everyone knows how fond you are of him and of
that tiresome child----"
Robert Stonehouse gasped. The earth reeled under his feet. The stump
of the cigar rolled off the windowsill, and he himself tumbled from his
chair and was sick--convulsively, hideously sick. For a moment he
remained huddled on the floor, half unconscious, and then very slowly
the green, soul-destroying mist receded and he found Christine bending
over him, wiping his face, with her pocket-Handkerchief.
"Robert, darling, why didn't you call out?"
"He's been smoking," Edith's voice declared viciously from somewhere in
the background. "I can smell it. The horrid little boy----"
"I didn't--I didn't----" He kept his feet with an enormous effort,
scowling at her.
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