She did not speak, and he went on in the same old way, French words peppering the halting English; she could have shut her eyes and fancied she was back in the city again, or on the ship.

He muttered and shouted alternately all the way to the cottage; there was a meal waiting but he could not eat; sitting on the edge of the verandah, he ordered her to light him a cigarette.  She knew there were none in the house and felt in his coat pocket, guessing he had bought some.  She was not really unhappy.  She was too sick, too frozen to feel yet at all.

“Come out my pock’,” he growled, hitting her arm away fiercely, his teeth clenched.  “Aft’ my money, eh?  Think you’re winning, don’t you?  In league with the Pater against me.  Think you’ll always have me under your thumb, nev’ giv’ free hand.  There’s not a man on God’s earth would stand it, damned if there is—­tied to wom’ apron strings all the time!”

“Very well, get your own cigarette.  I’m going to bed.”

“Y-you w-w-would,” he said, and laughed shrilly.  “Think you’ve got me in blasted bush, work like blast’ galley slave while you skulk in bed.”

“Oh don’t be such an idiot, Louis.  You’d better go to bed.  I’m tired of you,” she said, going past him into the bedroom.

“Ta’ my boots off,” he grunted, trying to reach his feet and overbalancing.  “If you can’t make yourself ’tractive to a man, you can be useful.  Nice damned freak you are f’r any man t’ come home to!  Nev’ trouble to dress please me—­like Vi’let.”

Marcella began to laugh hysterically.  It was uncanny how his opinion of her appearance coincided with her own.

“Wom’ your condish’ no damn goo’ t’ any man!” he mumbled.  She went past him, into the room and left him.  It was the first time she had made no attempt to soothe and sober him and bring him back.  She felt impatient with him, and horribly lonely and frightened of being with him, horribly longing to run to someone and be comforted.  But she was just as anxious to hide the trouble from the Twists and knew that she must bear it alone.

She cried for hours, completely disheartened, longing passionately to go to him and ask him to assure her it was only a dream, and he really was cured as she had imagined.  But at last she fell asleep, too proud to go and ask him to come to bed again, guessing that he would sleep in the living-room.

She wakened early and started up with full recollection of what had happened.  In the light of morning, after a sleep, she was sick with herself for having forgotten her theory that he was an ill man; she had let personal annoyance stop her from trying to help him.  Brimming over with love and pity and self-disgust she ran out to find him, for she guessed he would be penitent now, and in black despair.