ctable woman, I'll have
you know. I'll have no lice in my house, sneaking their way into the
furniture and eating up everything. It's cash--or out you go before
twelve o'clock to-morrow."

Viola felt rather than saw the woman's gesture. She shot out her arm in
a stupid helpless way, as though a dirty pigeon had suddenly flown
at her face. "Filthy old beast! Ugh! And the smell of her--like stale
cheese and damp washing."

"Very well!" she answered shortly; "it's cash down or I leave to-morrow.
All right: don't shout."

It was extraordinary--always before this woman came near her she
trembled in her shoes--even the sound of those flat feet stumping up
the stairs made her feel sick, but once they were face to face she felt
immensely calm and indifferent, and could not understand why she even
worried about money, nor why she sneaked out of the house on tiptoe, not
even daring to shut the door after her in case the landlady should hear
and shout something terrible, nor why she spent nights pacing up and
down her room--drawing up sharply before the mirror and saying to a
tragic reflection: "Money, money, money!" When she was alone her
poverty was like a huge dream-mountain on which her feet were fast
rooted--aching with the ache of the size of the thing--but if it came
to definite action, with no time for imaginings, her dream-mountain
dwindled into a beastly "hold-your-nose" affair, to be passed as quickly
as possible, with anger and a strong sense of superiority.

The landlady bounced out of the room, banging the door, so that it shook
and rattled as though it had listened to the conversation and fully
sympathised with the old hag.

Squatting on her heels, Viola opened the letter. It was from Casimir:

"I shall be with you at three o'clock this afternoon--and must be off
again this evening. All news when we meet. I hope you are happier than
I.--CASIMIR."

"Huh! how kind!" she sneered; "how condescending. Too good of you,
really!" She sprang to her feet, crumbling the letter in her hands. "And
how are you to know that I shall stick here awaiting your pleasure until
three o'clock this afternoon?" But she knew she would; her rage was only
half sincere. She longed to see Casimir, for she was confident that this
time she would make him understand the situation... "For, as it is, it's
intolerable--intolerable!" she muttered.

It was ten o'clock in the morning of a grey day curiously lighted by
pale flashes of sunshine.