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He lifted his head.

“I tell you this,” he said, low and intense. “Have anything to do with Sam Adams, and I’ll break your neck. ”

She laughed, shrill and false.

“How I hate your word ‘break your neck’,” she said, with a grimace of the mouth. “It sounds so common and beastly. Can’t you say something else—”

There was a dead silence.

“And besides,” she said, with a queer chirrup of mocking laughter, “what do you know about anything? He sent me an amethyst brooch and a pair of pearl ear-rings. ”

“He what?” said Whiston, in a suddenly normal voice. His eyes were fixed on her.

“Sent me a pair of pearl ear-rings, and an amethyst brooch,” she repeated, mechanically, pale to the lips.

And her big, black, childish eyes watched him, fascinated, held in her spell.

He seemed to thrust his face and his eyes forward at her, as he rose slowly and came to her. She watched transfixed in terror. Her throat made a small sound, as she tried to scream.

Then, quick as lightning, the back of his hand struck her with a crash across the mouth, and she was flung back blinded against the wall. The shock shook a queer sound out of her. And then she saw him still coming on, his eyes holding her, his fist drawn back, advancing slowly. At any instant the blow might crash into her.

Mad with terror, she raised her hands with a queer clawing movement to cover her eyes and her temples, opening her mouth in a dumb shriek. There was no sound. But the sight of her slowly arrested him. He hung before her, looking at her fixedly, as she stood crouched against the wall with open, bleeding mouth, and wide-staring eyes, and two hands clawing over her temples. And his lust to see her bleed, to break her and destroy her, rose from an old source against her. It carried him. He wanted satisfaction.

But he had seen her standing there, a piteous, horrified thing, and he turned his face aside in shame and nausea. He went and sat heavily in his chair, and a curious ease, almost like sleep, came over his brain.

She walked away from the wall towards the fire, dizzy, white to the lips, mechanically wiping her small, bleeding mouth. He sat motionless. Then, gradually, her breath began to hiss, she shook, and was sobbing silently, in grief for herself. Without looking, he saw. It made his mad desire to destroy her come back.

At length he lifted his head. His eyes were glowing again, fixed on her.

“And what did he give them you for?” he asked, in a steady, unyielding voice.

Her crying dried up in a second. She also was tense.

“They came as valentines,” she replied, still not subjugated, even if beaten.

“When, today?”

“The pearl ear-rings today—the amethyst brooch last year. ”

“You’ve had it a year?”

“Yes. ”

She felt that now nothing would prevent him if he rose to kill her. She could not prevent him any more. She was yielded up to him. They both trembled in the balance, unconscious.

“What have you had to
do with him?” he asked, in a barren voice.

“I’ve not had anything to do with him,” she quavered.

“You just kept ’em because they were jewellery?” he said.

A weariness came over him. What was the worth of speaking any more of it? He did not care any more. He was dreary and sick.

She began to cry again, but he took no notice. She kept wiping her mouth on her handkerchief. He could see it, the blood-mark. It made him only more sick and tired of the responsibility of it, the violence, the shame.

When she began to move about again, he raised his head once more from his dead, motionless position.

“Where are the things?” he said.

“They are upstairs,” she quavered. She knew the passion had gone down in him.

“Bring them down,” he said.

“I won’t,” she wept, with rage. “You’re not going to bully me and hit me like that on the mouth. ”

And she sobbed again. He looked at her in contempt and compassion and in rising anger.

“Where are they?” he said.

“They’re in the little drawer under the looking-glass,” she sobbed.

He went slowly upstairs, struck a match, and found the trinkets. He brought them downstairs in his hand.

“These?” he said, looking at them as they lay in his palm.

She looked at them without answering. She was not interested in them any more.

He looked at the little jewels. They were pretty.

“It’s none of their fault,” he said to himself.

And he searched round slowly, persistently, for a box. He tied the things up and addressed them to Sam Adams. Then he went out in his slippers to post the little package.

When he came back she was still sitting crying.

“You’d better go to bed,” he said.

She paid no attention. He sat by the fire. She still cried.

“I’m sleeping down here,” he said. “Go you to bed. ”

In a few moments she lifted her tear-stained, swollen face and looked at him with eyes all forlorn and pathetic. A great flash of anguish went over his body. He went over, slowly, and very gently took her in his hands. She let herself be taken. Then as she lay against his shoulder, she sobbed aloud:

“I never meant—”

“My love—my little love—” he cried, in anguish of spirit, holding her in his arms.