By that time neither Mr. nor Mrs. Marble was sorry to see her go. She had caused too much disturbance altogether. So they said goodbye to her in a philosophic manner. Mr. Marble, partly as a sheer thanksgiving offering, partly because Winnie took it as a matter of course, and partly even with a flicker of his old pride that a daughter of his should be going to stay as a guest at a house whose sole address was a name and a county, handed over another cheque. Life had grown so strange and unreal to them that they saw nothing out of the ordinary in letting a sixteen-year-old girl go away to stay with people they did not know, with something nearly approaching a hundred pounds in her handbag.
After all, Mr. Marble’s income was nearly twelve hundred a year; of that Winnie’s fees amounted to nearly three hundred, but of the remaining nine he hardly spent a quarter. A man who has five hundred a year for which he can find no use does not worry about odd hundreds, especially when he spends every waking minute in terror of being hanged.
XIII
The peace that had been so rudely disturbed was only with difficulty regained. The Marbles found it hard to settle down once more into the old groove. And no sooner had they begun to do so than another interruption to their peace—if their panic-stricken existence can be so called—occurred, this time at the hands of a more dangerous person, Madame Collins.
She had come to the limit of her patience. Nearly six months had elapsed since she had paid into her account a little roll of banknotes which might have been traced, had anyone taken the trouble, to Mr. Marble. After that last terrible occurrence, when that silly boy John had met with the motorcycling accident, she had indeed been content to wait a while, until matters should be quieter again, but this wait was too long altogether. Dressmaking in a back street in Dulwich with an automaton of a husband began to annoy her exceedingly. Anything was better than that, she decided. Even at Christmas time she had meditated action, but Winnie had been there when she called, and Winnie had looked her up and down with cool insolence and even Marguerite Collins had been abashed—or, rather, had decided that it would be better if Winnie were not her enemy. She bided her time awaiting a more favourable moment.
One morning Mr. Marble was alone at home, for Annie had gone out on one of her all too infrequent shopping expeditions. She had been gone five minutes only, when to Marble’s ear came the familiar sound of her hurried, quiet knock. With an enormous effort—everything was a great deal of trouble nowadays—he heaved himself out of his chair and went to the door.
Marguerite Collins was determined to have no nonsense. As the door opened she stepped inside, and she was through into the drawing-room and sitting down before Marble had shut it again. Marble came and stood before her wearily and dull-wittedly. There was clearly going to be trouble, and Mr. Marble did not feel in the mood for trouble.
“Well, what is it?” asked Marble.
Marguerite did not answer at once. She threw back the fur from round her neck and drew off her gloves with slow, deliberate movements. With a gesture she made much of her round, white throat and her plump hands. Six months ago this alone would have stirred Marble into action, but now it left him unmoved. Those six months had been spent in sluggish over-drinking and in frothy anxiety. Besides, he had had his will of her, and Marguerite was not of the type to revive dead passion. All this Marguerite realized as she watched, keenly but covertly, his unshaved face and the expressionless blue eyes. It was as she feared. Well, it would have to be pure business, then, without the frail disguise of anything else.
“You are not pleased that I come to see you?” she asked, with the lisp and trace of accent that Marble had once thought so wonderful.
“No,” said Marble, in no mood for tact. As a matter of fact, he was rapidly growing incapable of thinking about anything save what lay outside under the soil of the dreary backyard.
But the monosyllable roused Madame Collins to fury. It hurt, the more so as she had realized it previously.
“You are not polite,” she said, a faint flush appearing on her soft—over-soft—cheeks.
“No,” said Marble.
“You admit it! Are you not ashamed? And do you not remember when you would not have said a thing like that to me—no, not for worlds?”
“No,” said Marble.
“No, no, no! Have you nothing else to say to me except ‘no’?”
“No,” said Marble. He could hardly be said to be intentionally rude; but a man whose mind chooses that particular moment to run off on its favourite track towards arrest and execution is in no fit state to argue any point whatever with a hot-tempered woman—especially when he is in the wrong.
Marguerite Collins bit her lips, and then restrained herself by a violent effort of will. After all, money—so said her peasant soul to herself—was sweeter than revenge at any time, sweet though they both were; if she could obtain no money, then perhaps she could have the other, but she would spare no effort to screw more money out of this weak-minded rentier first.
She spoke calmly, and she allowed just as much of the old sweetness to creep into her tone as she thought might soften Marble towards her.
“Listen, Will. I am in trouble. I am in great trouble. My husband—you know what he is, I have told you, oh, so often—he is unsupportable. I hate him. And now I think—he hates me also. I must leave him. I
