Platitudes, littleness, falseness. . . . His life was choking him, and he hadn’t the courage to break with it. Let her go! Let her go when she would! . . . What a hideous world to be born into! Or was it hideous only for him? Everything he touched went wrong under his hand—always had.
When they sat down at the supper table in the back parlour an hour later, Enid looked worn, as if this time her decision had cost her something. “I should think you might have a restful winter at your mother’s,” she began cheerfully. “You won’t have nearly so much to look after as you do here. We needn’t disturb things in this house. I will take the silver down to Mother, and we can leave everything else just as it is. Would there be room for my car in your father’s garage? You might find it a convenience.”
“Oh, no! I won’t need it. I’ll put it up at the mill house,” he answered with an effort at carelessness.
All the familiar objects that stood about them in the lamplight seemed stiller and more solemn than usual, as if they were holding their breath.
“I suppose you had better take the chickens over to your mother’s,” Enid continued evenly. “But I shouldn’t like them to get mixed with her Plymouth Rocks; there’s not a dark feather among them now. Do ask Mother Wheeler to use all the eggs, and not to let my hens set in the spring.”
“In the spring?” Claude looked up from his plate.
“Of course, Claude. I could hardly get back before next fall, if I’m to be of any help to poor Carrie. I might try to be home for harvest, if that would make it more convenient for you.” She rose to bring in the dessert.
“Oh, don’t hurry on my account!” he muttered, staring after her disappearing figure.
