Anna opened a cupboard and produced cups and saucers and a tin of coffee. We were properly married, and the certificate is at my lawyer’s. The London backgrounds, in Bloomsbury and Marylebone, against which these people went to and fro, took on, by reason of their gray facades, their implacably respectable windows and window-blinds, their reiterated unmeaning iron railings, a stronger and stronger suggestion of the flavor of her father at his most obdurate phase, and of all that she felt herself fighting against. At the back of her mind there seemed always one irrelevant qualifying spectator whose presence she sought to disregard. The man’s hand flashed out, but immediately afterwards an oath and a cry of pain broke from his lips. As a rule, Courtlaw told her softly, he talked right and left, and to everybody throughout the whole of the meal—tonight he was almost silent, and seemed to devote his whole attention to staring at Anna.
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