She was aware that he hated the work. For some reason or other her anger flashed out like sudden lightning at his “if ever”. “What do you think you _can_ do?” she cried. “For I think you have done enough. We can’t do as we like altogether—indeed, indeed we cannot. You have had your fling, haven’t you? You have had your fling, and you want to keep on. But there’s more than one person in the world. Remember that. But there are your children, let me remind you. Whose are they? You talk about shirking the engagement, but who is going to be responsible for your children, do you think?” “I said nothing about shirking the engagement,” replied Siegmund, very coldly. “No, there was no need to say. I know what it means. You sit there sulking all day. What do you think _I_ do? I have to see to the children, I have to work and slave, I go on from day to day. I tell you _I’ll_ stop, I tell you _I’ll_ do as I like. _I’ll_ go as well. No, I wouldn’t be such a coward, you know that. You know _I_ wouldn’t leave little children—to the workhouse or anything. They’re my children; they mightn’t be yours.” “There is no need for this,” said Siegmund contemptuously. The pressure in his temples was excruciating, and he felt loathsomely sick. Beatrice’s dark eyes flashed with rage. “Isn’t there!” she cried. “Oh, isn’t there? No, there is need for a great deal more. I don’t know what you think I am. How much farther do you think you can go? No, you don’t like reminding of us. You sit moping, sulking, because you have to come back to your own children. I wonder how much you think I shall stand? What do you think I am, to put up with it? What do you think I am? Am I a servant to eat out of your hand?” “Be quiet!” shouted Siegmund. “Don’t I know what you are? Listen to yourself!” Beatrice was suddenly silenced. It was the stillness of white-hot wrath. Even Siegmund was glad to hear her voice again. She spoke low and trembling. “You coward—you miserable coward! It is I, is it, who am wrong? It is I who am to blame, is it? You miserable thing! I have no doubt you know what I am.” Siegmund looked up at her as her words died off. She looked back at him with dark eyes loathing his cowed, wretched animosity. His eyes were bloodshot and furtive, his mouth was drawn back in a half-grin of hate and misery. She was goading him, in his darkness whither he had withdrawn himself like a sick dog, to die or recover as his strength should prove. She tortured him till his sickness was swallowed by anger, which glared redly at her as he pushed back his chair to rise. He trembled too much, however. His chin dropped again on his chest. Beatrice sat down in her place, hearing footsteps. She was shuddering slightly, and her eyes were fixed. Vera entered with the two children. All three immediately, as if they found themselves confronted by something threatening, stood arrested. Vera tackled the situation. “Is the table ready to be cleared yet?” she asked in an unpleasant tone.