There was absolute silence in the room till they heard him turn on the
tap in the bathroom; then Beatrice began to breathe spasmodically,
catching her breath as if she would sob. But she restrained herself. The
faces of the two children set hard with hate.
'He is not worth the flicking of your little finger, Mother,' said Vera.
Beatrice moved about with pitiful, groping hands, collecting her sewing
and her cottons.
'At any rate, he's come back red enough,' said Frank, in his grating
tone of contempt. 'He's like boiled salmon.' Beatrice did not answer anything. Frank rose, and stood with his back to
the grate, in his father's characteristic attitude.
'He _would_ come slinking back in a funk!' he said, with a young man's
sneer.
Stretching forward, he put a piece of ham between two pieces of bread,
and began to eat the sandwich in large bites. Vera came to the table at
this, and began to make herself a more dainty sandwich. Frank watched
her with jealous eyes.
'There is a little more ham, if you'd like it,' said Beatrice to him. 'I
kept you some.' 'All right, Ma,' he replied. Fetch it in.' Beatrice went out to the kitchen.
'And bring the bread and butter, too, will you?' called Vera after her.
'The damned coward! Ain't he a rotten funker?' said Frank, _sotto voce_,
while his mother was out of the room.
Vera did not reply, but she seemed tacitly to agree.
They petted their mother, while she waited on them. At length Frank
yawned. He fidgeted a moment or two, then he went over to his mother,
and, putting his hand on her arm--the feel of his mother's round arm
under the black silk sleeve made his tears rise--he said, more gratingly
than ever: 'Ne'er mind, Ma; we'll be all right to you.' Then he bent and kissed
her. 'Good night, Mother,' he said awkwardly, and he went out of
the room.
Beatrice was crying.