men whose flesh is grass; modest, like the life of violets. The
words used by Mr Verloc were: “Lie low for a bit.” And far from
England, of course. It was not clear whether Mr Verloc had in his
mind Spain or South America; but at any rate somewhere abroad.
This last word, falling into Mrs Verloc’s ear, produced a definite
impression. This man was talking of going abroad. The impression
was completely disconnected; and such is the force of mental habit
that Mrs Verloc at once and automatically asked herself: “And what
of Stevie?”
It was a sort of forgetfulness; but instantly she became aware that
there was no longer any occasion for anxiety on that score. There
would never be any occasion any more. The poor boy had been taken
out and killed. The poor boy was dead.
This shaking piece of forgetfulness stimulated Mrs Verloc’s
intelligence. She began to perceive certain consequences which
would have surprised Mr Verloc. There was no need for her now to
stay there, in that kitchen, in that house, with that man – since
the boy was gone for ever. No need whatever. And on that Mrs
Verloc rose as if raised by a spring. But neither could she see
what there was to keep her in the world at all. And this inability
arrested her. Mr Verloc watched her with marital solicitude.
“You’re looking more like yourself,” he said uneasily. Something
peculiar in the blackness of his wife’s eyes disturbed his
optimism. At that precise moment Mrs Verloc began to look upon
herself as released from all earthly ties.
She had her freedom. Her contract with existence, as represented
by that man standing over there, was at an end. She was a free
woman. Had this view become in some way perceptible to Mr Verloc
he would have been extremely shocked. In his affairs of the heart
Mr Verloc had been always carelessly generous, yet always with no
other idea than that of being loved for himself. Upon this matter,
his ethical notions being in agreement with his vanity, he was
completely incorrigible. That this should be so in the case of his
virtuous and legal connection he was perfectly certain. He had
grown older, fatter, heavier, in the belief that he lacked no
fascination for being loved for his own sake. When he saw Mrs
Verloc starting to walk out of the kitchen without a word he was
disappointed.
“Where are you going to?” he called out rather sharply.
“Upstairs?”
Mrs Verloc in the doorway turned at the voice. An instinct of
prudence born of fear, the excessive fear of being approached and
touched by that man, induced her to nod at him slightly (from the
height of two steps), with a stir of the lips which the conjugal
optimism of Mr Verloc took for a wan and uncertain smile.
“That’s right,” he encouraged her gruffly. “Rest and quiet’s what
you want. Go on. It won’t be long before I am with you.”
Mrs Verloc, the free woman who had had really no idea where she was
going to, obeyed the suggestion with rigid steadiness.
Mr Verloc watched her. She disappeared up the stairs. He was
disappointed. There was that within him which would have been more
satisfied if she had been moved to throw herself upon his breast.
But he was generous and indulgent. Winnie was always
undemonstrative and silent. Neither was Mr Verloc himself prodigal
of endearments and words as a rule. But this was not an ordinary
evening. It was an occasion when a man wants to be fortified and
strengthened by open proofs of sympathy and affection. Mr Verloc
sighed, and put out the gas in the kitchen. Mr Verloc’s sympathy
with his wife was genuine and intense. It almost brought tears
into his eyes as he stood in the parlour reflecting on the
loneliness hanging over her head. In this mood Mr Verloc missed
Stevie very much out of a difficult world. He thought mournfully
of his end. If only that lad had not stupidly destroyed himself!
The sensation of unappeasable hunger, not unknown after the strain
of a hazardous enterprise to adventurers of tougher fibre than Mr