So the husband and wife were left together in the cottage room. The door had no sooner closed on Saunders and his companions than Isaac was seized with that strange sense of walking amid things unreal upon a wavering earth which is apt to beset the man who has any portion of the dreamer's temperament under any sudden rush of circumstance. He drew his hand across his brow, bewildered. The fire leapt and chattered in the grate; the newly-washed tea-things on the table shone under the lamp; the cat lay curled, as usual, on the chair where he sat after supper to read his _Christian World_; yet all things were not the same. What had changed? Then, across poor John's rifled box, he saw his wife sitting rigid on the chair where he had left her. He came and sat down at the corner of the table, close to her, his chin on his hand. "'Ow did yer spend it?" he said, startled, as the words came out, by his own voice, so grinding and ugly was the note of it. Her miserable eyes travelled over his face, seeking, as it were, for some promise, however faint, of future help and succour, however distant. Apparently she saw none, for her own look flamed to fresh defiance. "I didn't spend it. Saunders wor lyin'." "'Ow did yer get them half-crowns?" "I got 'em at Bedford. Mr. Grimstone give 'em me." Isaac looked at her hard, his shame burning into his heart. This was how she had got her money for the gin. Of course, she had lied to him the night before, in her account of her fall, and of that mark on her forehead, which still showed, a red disfigurement, under the hair she had drawn across it. The sight of it, of her, began to excite in him a quick loathing. He was at bottom a man of violent passions, and, in the presence of evil-doing so flagrant, so cruel--of a household ruin so complete--his religion failed him. "When was it as yer opened that box fust?" he asked her again, scorning her denials. She burst into a rage of tears, lifting her apron to her eyes, and flinging names at him that he scarcely heard. There was a little cold tea in a cup close to him that Bessie had forgotten. He stretched out his hand, and took a mouthful, moistening his dry lips and throat. "Yer'll go to prison for this," he said, jerking it out as he put the cup down. He saw her shiver. Her nerve was failing her. The convulsive sobs continued, but she ceased to abuse him. He wondered when he should be able to get it out of her. He himself could no more have wept than iron and fire weep. "Are yer goin' to tell me when yer took that money, and 'ow yer spent it? 'Cos if yer don't, I shall go to Watson." Even in her abasement it struck her as shameful, unnatural, that he, her husband, should say this. Her remorse returned upon her heart, like a tide driven back. She answered him not a word. He put his silver watch on the table. "I'll give yer two minutes," he said.