Presently she came to an end, soothed the child and cleared away
the breakfast-table. She left the newspaper, littered with curls,
spread upon the hearthrug. At last her husband gathered it up and put
it at the back of the fire. She went about her work with closed
mouth and very quiet. Morel was subdued. He crept about wretchedly,
and his meals were a misery that day. She spoke to him civilly,
and never alluded to what he had done. But he felt something final
had happened.
Afterwards she said she had been silly, that the boy's hair
would have had to be cut, sooner or later. In the end, she even
brought herself to say to her husband it was just as well he had
played barber when he did. But she knew, and Morel knew, that that
act had caused something momentous to take place in her soul.
She remembered the scene all her life, as one in which she had
suffered the most intensely.
This act of masculine clumsiness was the
spear through the side of
her love for Morel. Before, while she had striven against him bitterly,
she had fretted after him, as if he had gone astray from her.
Now she
ceased to fret for his love:
he was an outsider to her.