“You are a naughty, spoilt child!” she said, but without conviction.
“Excuse her, Edward.”
He did not seem to have heard.
“Well, if you don’t care----” said his wife bitterly. “Come, child!”
She caught the little girl by the hand and left the room.
At the door she half turned and looked fixedly at her husband. It was
a strange ambiguous gaze; in it passion and dislike were strangely
combined. Then she shivered and closed the door softly after her.
The man in the arm-chair sat with no perceptible change of attitude,
his unspeculative eyes fixed on the fire, his hands clasped idly in
front of him. The pose was obviously habitual. The servant brought
lights and closed the shutters, drew the curtains, and made up the
fire noisily, without, however, eliciting any reproof from his master.
Edward Arne was an ideal master, as far as Foster was concerned. He
kept cases of cigars, but never smoked them, although the supply had
often to be renewed. He did not care what he ate or drank, although he
kept as good a cellar as most gentlemen--Foster knew that. He never
interfered, he counted for nothing, he gave no trouble. Foster had no
intention of ever leaving such an easy place. True, his master was not
cordial; he very seldom addressed him or seemed to know whether he was
there, but then neither did he grumble if the fire in the study was
allowed to go out, or interfere with Foster’s liberty in any way. He
had a better place of it than Annette, Mrs. Arne’s maid, who would be
called up in the middle of the night to bathe her mistress’s forehead
with eau-de-Cologne, or made to brush her long hair for hours together
to soothe her. Naturally enough Foster and Annette compared notes as
to their respective situations, and drew unflattering parallels
between this capricious wife and model husband.