It was not only that
even Christine had failed him--everything was failing him. The shabby
plot of rising ground opposite, which justified Dr. Stonehouse's
contention that he looked out over open country, had become immersed in
a loathsome mist, greenish in hue, in which it heaved and rolled and
undulated like an uneasy reptile. The house likewise heaved, and
Robert had to lean hard against the lintel of the window to prevent
himself from falling out. A strange sensation of uncertainty--of
internal disintegration--obsessed him, and there was a cold moisture
gathering on his face. He felt that at any moment anything might
happen. He didn't care. He wanted to die, anyhow. They had forgotten
him, but when he was dead they would be sorry. His father would give
him a beautiful funeral, and Christine would say, "We can't afford it,
Jim," and there would be another awful scene.

In the next room Edith and Christine were talking as they rolled up the
Axminster carpet which, since the bailiff had no claim on it, was to go
to the pawnbroker's to appease the butcher. The door stood open, and
he could hear Edith's bitter, resentful voice raised in denunciation.

"I don't know why I stand it. If my poor dear father, Sir Godfrey,
knew what I was enduring, he would rise from the grave. Never did I
think I should have to go through such humiliation. My sisters say I
ought to leave him--that I am wanting in right feeling, but I can't
help it. I am faithful by nature. I remember my promises at the
altar--even if Jim forgets his----"

"He didn't promise to keep his temper or out of debt," Christine said.

Edith sniffed loudly.

"Or away from other women. Oh, it's no good, Christine, I know what I
know. There's always some other woman in the background. Only
yesterday I found a letter from Mrs. Saxburn--that red-haired vixen he
brought home to tea when there wasn't money in the house to buy bread.
I tell you he doesn't know what faithfulness means."

Robert, rising for a moment above his own personal anguish, clenched
his fist. It was all very well--he might hate his father, Christine
might hate him, though he knew she didn't, but Edith had no right. She
was an outsider--a bounder----

"He is faithful to his ideal," Christine answered. "He is always
looking for it and thinking he has found it. And except for Constance
he has always been mistaken."

"Thank you."

"I wasn't thinking of you," Christine explaine