Little Chandler sat in the room off the hall, holding a child in his arms.  To save money they kept no servant but Annie’s young sister Monica came for an hour or so in the morning and an hour or so in the evening to help.  But Monica had gone home long ago.  It was a quarter to nine.  Little Chandler had come home late for tea and, moreover, he had forgotten to bring Annie home the parcel of coffee from Bewley’s.  Of course she was in a bad humour and gave him short answers.  She said she would do without any tea but when it came near the time at which the shop at the corner closed she decided to go out herself for a quarter of a pound of tea and two pounds of sugar.  She put the sleeping child deftly in his arms and said: 

“Here.  Don’t waken him.”

A little lamp with a white china shade stood upon the table and its light fell over a photograph which was enclosed in a frame of crumpled horn.  It was Annie’s photograph.  Little Chandler looked at it, pausing at the thin tight lips.  She wore the pale blue summer blouse which he had brought her home as a present one Saturday.  It had cost him ten and elevenpence; but what an agony of nervousness it had cost him!  How he had suffered that day, waiting at the shop door until the shop was empty, standing at the counter and trying to appear at his ease while the girl piled ladies’ blouses before him, paying at the desk and forgetting to take up the odd penny of his change, being called back by the cashier, and finally, striving to hide his blushes as he left the shop by examining the parcel to see if it was securely tied.  When he brought the blouse home Annie kissed him and said it was very pretty and stylish; but when she heard the price she threw the blouse on the table and said it was a regular swindle to charge ten and elevenpence for it.  At first she wanted to take it back but when she tried it on she was delighted with it, especially with the make of the sleeves, and kissed him and said he was very good to think of her.

Hm!...

He looked coldly into the eyes of the photograph and they answered coldly.  Certainly they were pretty and the face itself was pretty.  But he found something mean in it.  Why was it so unconscious and ladylike?  The composure of the eyes irritated him.  They repelled him and defied him:  there was no passion in them, no rapture.  He thought of what Gallaher had said about rich Jewesses.  Those dark Oriental eyes, he thought, how full they are of passion, of voluptuous longing!...  Why had he married the eyes in the photograph?

He caught himself up at the question and glanced nervously round the room.  He found something mean in the pretty furniture which he had bought for his house on the hire system.  Annie had chosen it herself and it reminded hi of her.  It too was prim and pretty.  A dull resentment against his life awoke within him.  Could he not escape from his little house?  Was it too late for him to try to live bravely like Gallaher?  Could he go to London?  There was the furniture still to be paid for.  If he could only write a book and get it published, that might open the way for him.