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There is the low growl of the man’s voice and the answers of the woman’s, then both rise discordantly–a stifled scream and a heavy fall, footsteps down the passage, the bang of a door, and both voices raised in altercation, with the boy’s voice striking shrilly in between–a blow, a crash of china and glass, then stillness. She is breathless with excitement; the quiet is broken by a sound of scuffling in the passage; he is going to put her out. Drag, and shove, and the scraping of feet, and the sullen “you dare, you dare” of the woman, in reply to his muttered threats. She goes to the top of the stairs and cries:

“Don’t hurt her, wait until morning to reason with her, don’t hurt her!”

“Reason with ‘er, miss! There ain’t no way of reasoning with the likes of ‘er, chuck ‘er out is the only way. Would ye; would ye? Ye drunken beast?–“

The woman and the man sway together in the passage and her bodice is torn open at the breast and her hair is loose, and she loses her footing and falls as he drags her towards the door. She clutches at the chairs and brass umbrella-stand and drags them down; and the woman, watching, rushes upstairs and buries her face in the sofa cushions. Then the door bangs to and the woman outside rings and knocks and screams; windows open and heads peer out; then the boy lets her in and there seems to be a truce.

A charwoman brings her breakfast next morning, and it is tea-time before she sees her. She has on a clean pink cotton gown and her hair is nicely done and her skin looks very pink and white; but her eyes are swollen, and there is a bruise on one temple and a bad scratch on her cheek. She hangs her head sullenly and loiters with the tea-things; then she goes over to her and stands with her eyes on the ground and her hair glittering like golden down on the nape of her thick neck in the light from the window at her back.

“I am sorry for yesterday, miss, it was bad of me, but you won’t go away? I won’t do it again. Take it off the rent; only forgive me, won’t you, miss?”

She is flushing painfully; her face is working, perhaps it seems worse because it is a heavily moulded face and it does not easily express emotions. It has the attractive freshness of youth and vivid colouring.

“We won’t say anything more about it. I am so sorry; I am not used to scenes and it made me quite ill; I was frightened, I thought you would be hurt.”

The woman’s face changes and as she raises her heavy white lids her eyes seem to look crosswise with a curious gleam in them and her voice is hoarse.

“That little beast told him, the little sneak! But I’ll pay him for it; I’ll pay him!”

An uneasy dislike stirs in the woman; she says very quietly.

“But you can’t expect a man to come home and find you so and then be pleased.”

“No, but he shouldn’t–” she checks herself and passes her hand across her forehead. The other woman observes her closely as she does most things–as material. It is not that her sympathies are less keen since she took to writing, but that the habit of analysis is always uppermost. She sees a voluptuously made woman, with a massive milk-white throat rising out of the neck of her pink gown; her jaw is square and prominent, her nose short and straight, her brows traced distinctly; she is attractive and repellent in a singular way.