The door
was a new one--he had had them renewed himself, in readiness for their
coming in after the honeymoon. In a rage he lifted his foot to kick
in the panel; the thought of the servants restrained him, and he felt
suddenly that he was beaten.
Flinging himself down in the dressing-room, he took up a book.
But instead of the print he seemed to see his wife--with her yellow hair
flowing over her bare shoulders, and her great dark eyes--standing like
an animal at bay. And the whole meaning of her act of revolt came to
him. She meant it to be for good.
He could not sit still, and went to the door again. He could still hear
her, and he called: "Irene! Irene!"
He did not mean to make his voice pathetic.
In ominous answer, the faint sounds ceased. He stood with clenched
hands, thinking.
Presently he stole round on tiptoe, and running suddenly at the other
door, made a supreme effort to break it open. It creaked, but did not
yield. He sat down on the stairs and buried his face in his hands.
For a long time he sat there in the dark, the moon through the skylight
above laying a pale smear which lengthened slowly towards him down the
stairway. He tried to be philosophical.
Since she had locked her doors she had no further claim as a wife, and
he would console himself with other women.
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