In his utter beatitude, even his resentment of Alma continued to grow
but slowly. Once, when after forty-eight hours she forbade him rather
fiercely an entrance into his wife's room, he shoved her aside almost
rudely, but at Carrie's little shriek of remonstrance from the darkened
room, backed out shamefacedly and apologized next day in the
conciliatory language of a tiny wrist-watch.
But a break came, as she knew and feared it must.
One evening during one of these attacks, when for two days Carrie had
not appeared at the dinner table, Alma, entering when the meal was
almost over, seated herself rather exhaustedly at her mother's place
opposite her stepfather.
He had reached the stage when that little unconscious usurpation in
itself could annoy him.
"How's your mother?" he asked, dourly for him.
"She's asleep."
"Funny. This is the third attack this month and each time it lasts
longer. Confound that neuralgia."
"She's easier now."
He pushed back his plate.
"Then I'll go in and sit with her while she sleeps."
She who was so fastidiously dainty of manner, half rose, spilling her
soup.
"No," she said, "you mustn't! Not now!" And sat down again hurriedly,
wanting not to appear perturbed.
A curious thing happened then to Louis. His lower lip came pursing out
like a little shelf and a hitherto unsuspected look of pigginess
fattened over his rather plump face.
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