"Go out to work, what for?"
His voice was so strong, and ready, and vibrant. It irritated her.
"I want some other life than this."
A flash of strong rage arrested all his blood for a moment.
"Some other life?" he repeated. "Why, what other life do you want?"
She hesitated.
"Something else besides housework and hanging about. And I want to earn something."
Her curious, brutal hardness of speech, and the fierce invincibility of her youth, which ignored him, made him also harden with anger.
"And how do you think you're going to earn anything?" he asked.
"I can become a teacher—I'm qualified by my matric."
He wished her matric. in hell.
"And how much are you qualified to earn by your matric.?" he asked, jeering.
"Fifty pounds a year," she said.
He was silent, his power taken out of his hand.
He had always hugged a secret pride in the fact that his daughters need not go out to work. With his wife's money and his own they had four hundred a year. They could draw on the capital if need be later on. He was not afraid for his old age. His daughters might be ladies.
Fifty pound a year was a pound a week—which was enough for her to live on independently.
"And what sort of a teacher do you think you'd make? You haven't the patience of a Jack-gnat with your own brothers and sisters, let alone with a class of children. And I thought you didn't like dirty, board-school brats."
"They're not all dirty."
"You'd find they're not all clean."
There was silence in the workshop. The lamplight fell on the burned silver bowl that lay before him, on mallet and furnace and chisel. Brangwen stood with a queer, cat-like light on his face, almost like a smile. But it was no smile.
"Can I try?" she said.
"You can do what the deuce you like, and go where you like."
Her face was fixed and expressionless and indifferent. It
