Presently she came down in them. Her husband still sat immovable and glowering by the fire. “Look!” she said. “They’ll do beautifully.” And she picked up her skirts to her knees, and twisted round, looking at her pretty legs in the neat stockings. He filled with unreasonable rage, and took the pipe from his mouth. “Don’t they look nice?” she said. “One from last year and one from this, they just do. Save you buying a pair.” And she looked over her shoulders at her pretty calves, and the dangling frills of her knickers. “Put your skirts down and don’t make a fool of yourself,” he said. “Why a fool of myself?” she asked. And she began to dance slowly round the room, kicking up her feet half reckless, half jeering, in a ballet-dancer’s fashion. Almost fearfully, yet in defiance, she kicked up her legs at him, singing as she did so. She resented him. “You little fool, ha’ done with it,” he said. “And you’ll backfire them stockings, I’m telling you.” He was angry. His face flushed dark, he kept his head bent. She ceased to dance. “I shan’t,” she said. “They’ll come in very useful.” He lifted his head and watched her, with lighted, dangerous eyes. “You’ll put ’em on the fire back, I tell you,” he said. It was a war now. She bent forward, in a ballet-dancer’s fashion, and put her tongue between her teeth. “I shan’t backfire them stockings,” she sang, repeating his words, “I shan’t, I shan’t, I shan’t.” And she danced round the room doing a high kick to the tune of her words. There was a real biting indifference in her behaviour. “We’ll see whether you will or not,” he said, “trollops! You’d like Sam Adams to know you was wearing ’em, wouldn’t you? That’s what would please you.” “Yes, I’d like him to see how nicely they fit me, he might give me some more then.” And she looked down at her pretty legs. He knew somehow that she _would_ like Sam Adams to see how pretty her legs looked in the white stockings. It made his anger go deep, almost to hatred. “Yer nasty trolley,” he cried. “Put yer petticoats down, and stop being so foul-minded.” “I’m not foul-minded,” she said. “My legs are my own. And why shouldn’t Sam Adams think they’re nice?” There was a pause. He watched her with eyes glittering to a point. “Have you been havin’ owt to do with him?” he asked. “I’ve just spoken to him when I’ve seen him,” she said. “He’s not as bad as you would make out.” “Isn’t he?” he cried, a certain wakefulness in his voice. “Them who has anything to do wi’ him is too bad for me, I tell you.” “Why, what are you frightened of him for?” she mocked. She was rousing all his uncontrollable anger. He sat glowering. Every one of her sentences stirred him up like a red-hot iron. Soon it would be too much. And she was afraid herself; but she was neither conquered nor convinced. A curious little grin of hate came on his face. He had a long score against her.