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prostrated inactivity of two mornings was stifling him.
It was near six o'clock when he got down. This time he entered without
hesitation, his wincing sensitiveness having hardened again. He did not
care any longer what the family thought or felt.
The tea-things were on the table. William was reading aloud from "The
Child's Own", Annie listening and asking eternally "why?" Both children
hushed into silence as they heard the approaching thud of their father's
stockinged feet, and shrank as he entered. Yet he was usually indulgent
to them.
Morel made the meal alone, brutally. He ate and drank more noisily than
he had need. No one spoke to him. The family life withdrew, shrank
away, and became hushed as he entered. But he cared no longer about his
alienation.
Immediately he had finished tea he rose with alacrity to go out. It was
this alacrity, this haste to be gone, which so sickened Mrs. Morel. As
she heard him sousing heartily in cold water, heard the eager scratch
of the steel comb on the side of the bowl, as he wetted his hair, she
closed her eyes in disgust.


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