Page 62 - sons-and-lovers

‘Never, milord. I’d wait on a dog at the door first.’
‘What—what?’
He was trying to fit in the drawer. At her last speech be
turned round. His face was crimson, his eyes bloodshot. He
stared at her one silent second in threat.
‘P-h!’ she went quickly, in contempt.
He jerked at the drawer in his excitement. It fell, cut
sharply on his shin, and on the reflex he flung it at her.
One of the corners caught her brow as the shallow drawer
crashed into the fireplace. She swayed, almost fell stunned
from her chair. To her very soul she was sick; she clasped the
child tightly to her bosom. A few moments elapsed; then,
with an effort, she brought herself to. The baby was cry-
ing plaintively. Her left brow was bleeding rather profusely.
As she glanced down at the child, her brain reeling, some
drops of blood soaked into its white shawl; but the baby was
at least not hurt. She balanced her head to keep equilibrium,
so that the blood ran into her eye.
Walter Morel remained as he had stood, leaning on the
table with one hand, looking blank. When he was suffi-
ciently sure of his balance, he went across to her, swayed,
caught hold of the back of her rocking-chair, almost tipping
her out; then leaning forward over her, and swaying as he
spoke, he said, in a tone of wondering concern:
‘Did it catch thee?’
He swayed again, as if he would pitch on to the child.
With the catastrophe he had lost all balance.
‘Go away,’ she said, struggling to keep her presence of
mind.

1