Edward Henry was hurt. He escaped from between the beds and from that
close, enervating domestic atmosphere where he was misunderstood by
women and disdained by infants. He wanted fresh air; he wanted bars,
whiskies, billiard-rooms and the society of masculine men-about-town.
The whole of his own world was against him.
As he passed by his knitting mother she ignored him and moved not. She
had a great gift of holding aloof from conjugal complications.
On the landing he decided that he would go out at once into the major
world. Half-way down the stairs he saw his overcoat on the hall-stand
beckoning to him and offering release.
Then he heard the bedroom door and his wife's footsteps.
"Edward Henry!"
"Well?"
He stopped and looked up inimically at her face, which overhung the
banisters. It was the face of a woman outraged in her most profound
feelings, but amazingly determined to be sweet.
"What do you think of it?"
"What do I think of what? The wound?"
"Yes."
"Why, it's simply nothing. Nothing at all. You know how that kid
always heals up quick. You won't be able to find the wound in a day or
two."
"Don't you think it ought to be cauterized at once?"
He moved on downwards.
"No, I don't. I've been bitten three times in my life by dogs. And I
was never cauterized."
"Well, I _do_ think it ought to be cauterized.
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