In the morning Beatrice was disturbed by the sharp sneck of the hall
door. Immediately awake, she heard his quick, firm step hastening down
the gravel path. In her impotence, discarded like a worn out object, she
lay for the moment stiff with bitterness.
'I am nothing, I am nothing,' she said to herself. She lay quite rigid
for a time.
There was no sound anywhere. The morning sunlight pierced vividly
through the slits of the blind. Beatrice lay rocking herself, breathing
hard, her finger-nails pressing into her palm. Then came the sound of a
train slowing down in the station, and directly the quick
'chuff-chuff-chuff' of its drawing out. Beatrice imagined the sunlight
on the puffs of steam, and the two lovers, her husband and Helena,
rushing through the miles of morning sunshine.
'God strike her dead! Mother of God, strike her down!' she said aloud,
in a low tone. She hated Helena.
Irene, who lay with her mother, woke up and began to question her.