“Edmund!—­I want to speak to you!”

Melrose, who was hanging, frowning and absorbed, over a carpenter who was freeing what seemed to be an old clock from the elaborate swathings of paper and straw in which it had been packed, looked up with annoyance.

“Can’t you see, Netta, that I’m very busy?”

“I can’t help it!—­it’s about baby.”

With a muttered “D—­n!” Melrose came toward her.

“What on earth do you want?”

Netta looked at him defiantly.

“I want to be told whenever the cart goes into Pengarth—­there were lots of things to get for baby.  And I must have something here that I can drive myself.  We can’t be cut off from everything.”

“Give your orders to Mrs. Dixon then about the cart,” said Melrose angrily.  “What has it to do with me?  As for a carriage, I have no money to spend on any nonsense of the kind.  We can do perfectly well without it.”

“I only want a little pony-cart—­you could get it second-hand for ten or twelve pounds—­and the farmer has got a pony.”

She looked at him—­sallow, and frowning.

Melrose pushed her into the passage and drew the door to, behind him, so that the carpenter might not hear.

“Ten or twelve pounds!  Do you expect I get money off the hedges?  Can’t you be content here like a reasonable woman, without getting me into debt?”

Netta laughed and tossed her head.

“You shouldn’t leave your business letters about!”

“What do you mean?”

“There was a cheque among your papers one day last week!—­I saw it before you could hide it away.  It was for L3,000—­a dividend from something—­a coal mine, I think.  And the week before you had another—­”

Her husband’s eyes shed lightnings.

“I’ll not have you prying into my affairs!” he said violently.  “All I have is wanted—­and more.”

“And nothing of course—­to give me—­your wife!—­for any comforts or pleasures!  That never enters into your head!”

Her voice came thickly already.  Her chest began to heave.

“There now—­crying again!” said Melrose, turning on his heel.  “Can’t you sometimes thank your stars you’re not starving in Florence, and just put up with things a little?”

Netta restrained herself.

“So I would”—­she said, choking—­“if—­”

“If what—­”

For all answer, she turned and hurried away toward the hall.  Melrose looked after her with what appeared like exasperation, then suddenly recaptured himself, smoothed his brow, and, returning to the study, gave himself with unruffled zest and composure to the task of unpacking the Boule clock.