The fish was scorched. Mr. Pontellier would not touch it. Edna said she
did not mind a little scorched taste. The roast was in some way not to
his fancy, and he did not like the manner in which the vegetables were
served.
"It seems to me," he said, "we spend money enough in this house to
procure at least one meal a day which a man could eat and retain his
self-respect."
"You used to think the cook was a treasure," returned Edna,
indifferently.
"Perhaps she was when she first came; but cooks are only human. They
need looking after, like any other class of persons that you employ.
Suppose I didn't look after the clerks in my office, just let them
run things their own way; they'd soon make a nice mess of me and my
business."
"Where are you going?" asked Edna, seeing that her husband arose
from table without having eaten a morsel except a taste of the
highly-seasoned soup.
"I'm going to get my dinner at the club. Good night." He went into the
hall, took his hat and stick from the stand, and left the house.
She was somewhat familiar with such scenes. They had often made her very
unhappy. On a few previous occasions she had been completely deprived of
any desire to finish her dinner. Sometimes she had gone into the kitchen
to administer a tardy rebuke to the cook. Once she went to her room and
studied the cookbook during an entire evening, finally writing out a
menu for the week, which left her harassed with a feeling that, after
all, she had accomplished no good that was worth the name.
But that evening Edna finished her dinner alone, with forced
deliberation. Her face was flushed and her eyes flamed with some inward
fire that lighted them. After finishing her dinner she went to her
room, having instructed the boy to tell any other callers that she was
indisposed.
It was a large, beautiful room, rich and picturesque in the soft, dim
light which the maid had turned low. She went and stood at an open
window and looked out upon the deep tangle of the garden below. All the
mystery and witchery of the night seemed to have gathered there amid the
perfumes and the dusky and tortuous outlines of flowers and foliage.
She was seeking herself and finding herself in just such sweet,
half-darkness which met her moods. But the voices were not soothing
that came to her from the darkness and the sky above and the stars. They
jeered and sounded mournful notes without promise, devoid even of hope.
She turned back into the room and began to walk to and fro down its
whole length, without stopping, without resting. She carried in her
hands a thin handkerchief, which she tore into ribbons, rolled into a
ball, and flung from her. Once she stopped, and taking off her wedding
ring, flung it upon the carpet. When she saw it lying there, she stamped
her heel upon it, striving to crush it. But her small boot heel did not
make an indenture, not a mark upon the little glittering circlet.