‘How dear of Grandmother.’
We had stopped having lunch with her on Sundays. I had not seen
her often since Rachel was born.
He got up again, abruptly, and left the room. I stayed alone
and cried, and wished that I were dead.
Afterwards Walter was sorry.
He said he was sorry; he said he hardly knew what he had said.
He said:
‘I had such a headache, and the pass-book was the last straw.
I was awfully upset. I was a beast.’
‘Dear, dear Helen,’ he said suddenly, ‘you must forgive me. You
don’t know what you are to me.’
I said, of course, that it did not matter. I said again that
I was sorry; but I felt him still unkind.