was only that unnatural tenseness of people who cover their agitation. He glanced round to see where he should go. His wicker armchair remained empty by the fireplace; his slippers were standing under the sideboard, as he had left them. Siegmund sat down in the creaking chair; he began to feel sick and tired.
“I suppose the children are in bed,” he said.
His wife sewed on as if she had not heard him; his daughter noisily turned over a leaf and continued to read, as if she were pleasantly interested and had known no interruption. Siegmund waited, with his slipper dangling from his hand, looking from one to another.
“They’ve been gone two hours,” said Frank at last, still without raising his eyes from his book. His tone was contemptuous, his voice was jarring, not yet having developed a man’s fulness.
Siegmund put on his slipper, and began to unlace the other boot. The slurring of the lace through the holes and the snacking of the tag seemed unnecessarily loud. It annoyed his wife. She took a breath to speak, then refrained, feeling suddenly her daughter’s scornful restraint upon her. Siegmund rested his arms upon his knees, and sat leaning forward, looking into the barren fireplace, which was littered with paper, and orange-peel, and a banana-skin.
“Do you want any supper?” asked Beatrice, and the sudden harshness of her voice startled him into looking at her.
She had her face averted, refusing to see him. Siegmund’s heart went down with weariness and despair at the sight of her.
