Mrs Holt, everything in her quivering.

'Put his arm round her, though she pushed him off, and kissed her.'

Mrs Holt clasped her hands together. A sharp pang had shot through her.
'What are you going to do?' she asked.

'Do?' said Holt. 'Sack her of course. Send him up to Rawsley. Damn the
young fool.'

CHAPTER IX

Breakfast is so proverbially dismal, that dismalness becomes good form;
humanity feels silent and liverish, so it grudges Providence its due,
for it cannot return thanks for the precocious blessings of the day.
Such was breakfast at Finchley Road, and Victoria would not have noticed
it on that particular morning had the silence not somehow been eloquent.
She could feel, if not see storm clouds on the horizon.

Mr Holt sat over his eggs and bacon, eating quickly with both hands,
every now and then soiling the napkin tightly tucked into the front of
his low collar. There was nothing abnormal in this, except perhaps that
he kept his eyes more closely glued than usual to the table cloth;
moreover, he had not unfolded the paper. Therefore he had not looked up
the prices of Industrials. This was singular. Mrs Holt never said much
at breakfast, in deference to her husband, but this morning her silence
was somewhat ostentatious. She handed Victoria her tea. Victoria passed
her the toast and hardly heard her 'thank you.'

Jack sat more abstracted than ever. He was feeling very uncomfortable.
He wavered between the severe talking to he had received from Victoria
the previous afternoon and the sulkiness of his parents. Of course he
was feeling depressed, but he could not tell why. Victoria's mere nod of
acceptance when he offered her the salt, and his mother's curt refusal
of the pepper did not contribute to make him easier in his mind. Mrs
Holt cleared her throat: 'Blowing up for rain, Thomas,' she said. Mr
Holt did not move a muscle. He helped himself to marmalade. Stolid
silence once more reigned over the breakfast table. Jack stole a
sidelong glance at Victoria. Her eyes were fixed upon her hands crossed
before her. Jack's eyes dwelled for a moment on their shapely strength,
then upon the firm white nape of her bent neck. An insane desire
possessed him to jump up, seize her in his arms, crush his lips into
that spot where the dark tendrils of her hair began. He repressed it,
and considered the grandfather's clock which had once ticked in a
peasant Holt's kitchen. To-day it ticked with almost horribl