Something fell over in the shop:  a chair, it sounded like.  Then there was a sound as of some complicated step exercise in the passage.  Then the door opened and Coombes appeared.  But it was Coombes transfigured.  The immaculate collar had been torn carelessly from his throat.  His carefully-brushed silk hat, half-full of a crush of fungi, was under one arm; his coat was inside out, and his waistcoat adorned with bunches of yellow-blossomed furze.  These little eccentricities of Sunday costume, however, were quite overshadowed by the change in his face; it was livid white, his eyes were unnaturally large and bright, and his pale blue lips were drawn back in a cheerless grin.  “Merry!” he said.  He had stopped dancing to open the door.  “Rational ’njoyment.  Dance.”  He made three fantastic steps into the room, and stood bowing.

“Jim!” shrieked Mrs. Coombes, and Mr. Clarence sat petrified, with a dropping lower jaw.

“Tea,” said Mr. Coombes.  “Jol’ thing, tea.  Tose-stools, too.  Brosher.”

“He’s drunk,” said Jennie in a weak voice.  Never before had she seen this intense pallor in a drunken man, or such shining, dilated eyes.

Mr. Coombes held out a handful of scarlet agaric to Mr. Clarence.  “Jo’ stuff,” said he; “ta’ some.”

At that moment he was genial.  Then at the sight of their startled faces he changed, with the swift transition of insanity, into overbearing fury.  And it seemed as if he had suddenly recalled the quarrel of his departure.  In such a huge voice as Mrs. Coombes had never heard before, he shouted, “My house.  I’m master ’ere.  Eat what I give yer!” He bawled this, as it seemed, without an effort, without a violent gesture, standing there as motionless as one who whispers, holding out a handful of fungus.

Clarence approved himself a coward.  He could not meet the mad fury in Coombes’ eyes; he rose to his feet, pushing back his chair, and turned, stooping.  At that Coombes rushed at him.  Jennie saw her opportunity, and, with the ghost of a shriek, made for the door.

Mrs. Coombes followed her.  Clarence tried to dodge.  Over went the tea-table with a smash as Coombes clutched him by the collar and tried to thrust the fungus into his mouth.  Clarence was content to leave his collar behind him, and shot out into the passage with red patches of fly agaric still adherent to his face.  “Shut ’im in!” cried Mrs. Coombes, and would have closed the door, but her supports deserted her; Jennie saw the shop door open, and vanished thereby, locking it behind her, while Clarence went on hastily into the kitchen.  Mr. Coombes came heavily against the door, and Mrs. Coombes, finding the key was inside, fled upstairs and locked herself in the spare bedroom.