They did not mention the dinner again, but for weeks it hung in
the background of all Anne's thought. The long silences and sudden
irritations of Roger she interpreted by it, as well as her own growing
inability to discuss his work with him. All their talks now were
touched with the same dislike, almost fear, she had always had of
dropping the curtain of Hilda's Niche behind her, and being left alone
in the dark confusion of the interior.
Beyond the brilliant light of her own happiness in the coming of the
baby, the still positive joy in her pretty home, there was something
dark, hidden and unclear. It was as if Roger himself had absorbed some
of the dumb hatred, the bitterness of revolt that saturated the outside
world.
The longshore strike hung on; other strikes threatened in sympathy. The
newspapers clamored for settlement. Through January and February, Roger
was out almost every evening with Hilary Wainwright, attending useless
efforts at adjustment. From these he returned, his anger throttled to
consideration of Anne's condition, a consideration so palpable that
Anne felt the foundations of her peace tremble.
Finally, one night at the beginning of March, when, after a brief rest
of exhaustion, the rain was again pouring hour after hour, a mass of
water from sky to earth, Anne spoke:
"A penny, Roger. You've been staring into the fire half an hour by the
clock. I spoke twice and you never heard a word."