Momentarily Jenny’s picture of Emmy’s nature (drawn accommodatingly by herself in order that her own might be differentiated and exalted by any comparison) was shattered.  Emmy’s vehemence had thus the temporary effect of creating a fresh reality out of a common idealisation of circumstance.  The legend would re-form later, perhaps, and would continue so to re-form as persuasion flowed back upon Jenny’s egotism, until it crystallised hard and became unchallengeable; but at any rate for this instant Jenny had had a glimmer of insight into that tamer discontent and rebelliousness that encroached like a canker upon Emmy’s originally sweet nature.  The shock of impact with unpleasant conviction made Jenny hasten to dissemble her real belief in Emmy’s born inferiority.  Her note was changed from one of complaint into one of persuasive entreaty.

“It’s not that.  It’s not that.  Not at all.  But wouldn’t you like a change from stew and bread pudding yourself?  Sometimes, I mean.  You seem to like it all right.”  At that ill-considered suggestion, made with unintentional savageness, Jenny so worked upon herself that her own colour rose high.  Her temper became suddenly unmanageable.  “You talk about me being out!” she breathlessly exclaimed.  “When do I go out?  When!  Tell me!”

“O-o-h!  I like that!  What about going to the pictures with Alf Rylett?” Emmy’s hands were, jerking upon the table in her anger.  “You’re always out with him!”

“Me?  Well I never!  I’m not.  When—­”

They were interrupted unexpectedly by a feeble and jubilant voice.

“More bready butter pudding!” said Pa Blanchard, tipping his plate to show that he had finished.

“Yes, Pa!” For the moment Emmy was distracted from her feud.  In a mechanical way, as mothers sometimes, deep in conversation, attend to their children’s needs, she put another wedge of pudding upon the plate.  “Well, I say you are,” she resumed in the same strained voice.  “And tell me when I go out!  I go out shopping.  That’s all.  But for that, I’m in the house day and night.  You don’t care tuppence about Alf—­you wouldn’t, not if he was walking the soles off his boots to come to you.  You never think about him.  He’s like dirt, to you.  Yet you go out with him time after time....”  Her lips as she broke off were pursed into a trembling unhappy pout, sure forerunner of tears.  Her voice was weak with feeling.  The memory of lonely evenings surged into her mind, evenings when Jenny was out with Alf, while she, the drudge, stayed at home with Pa, until she was desperate with the sense of unutterable wrong.  “Time after time, you go.”

“Sorry, I’m sure!” flung back Jenny, fairly in the fray, too quick not to read the plain message of Emmy’s tone and expression, too cruel to relinquish the sudden advantage.  “I never guessed you wanted him.  I wouldn’t have done it for worlds.  You never said, you know!” Satirically, she concluded, with a studiously careful accent, which she used when she wanted to indicate scorn or innuendo, “I’m sorry.  I ought to have asked if I might!” Then, with a dash into grimmer satire:  “Why doesn’t he ask you to go with him?  Funny his asking me, isn’t it?”