His
alcohol-excited brain ran riot--but, when it did its foolish worst, he
was baffled by one thing.
"Damn her!" he found himself crying out. "If I had hung her up and
cut her into strips she would have died staring at me with her big
eyes--without uttering a sound."
There was a long reach between his imaginings and the time he lived
in. America had not been discovered in those decent days, and now a
man could not beat even his own wife, or spend her money, without being
meddled with by fools. He was thinking of a New York young woman of the
nineteenth century who could actually do as she hanged pleased, and who
pleased to be damned high and mighty. For that reason in itself it was
incumbent upon a man to get even with her in one way or another. High
and mightiness was not the hardest thing to reach. It offered a good
aim.
His temper when he returned to Stornham was of the order which in past
years had set Rosalie and her child shuddering and had sent the servants
about the house with pale or sullen faces. Betty's presence had the
odd effect of restraining him, and he even told her so with sneering
resentment.
"There would be the devil to pay if you were not here," he said.
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