Presently she came down in them. Her husband still sat
immovable and glowering by the fire.
"Look!" she said. "They'll do beautifully."
And she picked up her skirts to her knees, and twisted round, looking at her pretty legs in the neat stockings.
He filled with
unreasonable rage, and took the pipe from his mouth.
"Don't they look nice?" she said. "One from last year and one from this, they just do. Save you buying a pair."
And she looked over her shoulders at her pretty calves, and the dangling frills of her knickers.
"Put your skirts down and don't make a fool of yourself," he said.
"Why a fool of myself?" she asked.
And she began to dance slowly round the room, kicking up her feet
half reckless, half jeering, in a ballet-dancer's fashion.
Almost fearfully, yet
in defiance, she kicked up her legs at him, singing as she did so. She
resented him.