He groaned slightly as he breathed, with a horrid weight of nausea. There was a fumbling upon the door-knob. Siegmund did not start. He merely pulled himself together. Gwen pushed open the door, and stood holding on to the door-knob looking at him. “Dad, Mam says dinner’s ready,” she announced. Siegmund did not reply. The child waited, at a loss for some moments, before she repeated, in a hesitating tone: “Dinner’s ready.” “All right,” said Siegmund. “Go away.” The little girl returned to the kitchen with tears in her eyes, very crestfallen. “What did he say?” asked Beatrice. “He shouted at me,” replied the little one, breaking into tears. Beatrice flushed. Tears came into her own eyes. She took the child in her arms and pressed her to her, kissing her forehead. “Did he?” she said very tenderly. “Never mind, then, dearie—never mind.” The tears in her mother’s voice made the child sob bitterly. Vera and Marjory sat silent at table. The steak and mashed potatoes steamed and grew cold. XXIV When Helena arrived home on the Thursday evening she found everything repulsive. All the odours of the sordid street through which she must pass hung about the pavement, having crept out in the heat. The house was bare and narrow. She remembered children sometimes to have brought her moths shut up in matchboxes. As she knocked at the door she felt like a numbed moth which a boy is pushing off its leaf-rest into his box. The door was opened by her mother. She was a woman whose sunken mouth, ruddy cheeks, and quick brown eyes gave her the appearance of a bird which walks about pecking suddenly here and there. As Helena reluctantly entered the mother drew herself up, and immediately relaxed, seeming to peck forwards as she said: “Well?” “Well, here we are!” replied the daughter in a matter-of-fact tone. Her mother was inclined to be affectionate, therefore she became proportionately cold. “So I see,” exclaimed Mrs Verden, tossing her head in a peculiar jocular manner. “And what sort of a time have you had?” “Oh, very good,” replied Helena, still more coolly. “H’m!” Mrs Verden looked keenly at her daughter. She recognized the peculiar sulky, childish look she knew so well, therefore, making an effort, she forbore to question. “You look well,” she said. Helena smiled ironically. “And are you ready for your supper?” she asked, in the playful, affectionate manner she had assumed. “If the supper is ready I will have it,” replied her daughter. “Well, it’s not ready.” The mother shut tight her sunken mouth, and regarded her daughter with playful challenge. “Because,” she continued, “I didn’t known when you were coming.” She gave a jerk with her arm, like an orator who utters the incontrovertible. “But,” she added, after a tedious dramatic pause, “I can soon have it ready. What will you have?” “The full list of your capacious larder,” replied Helena. Mrs Verden looked at her again, and hesitated.