do in that way. Strike me dead if I ever would have thought of the
lad for that purpose. It was you who kept on shoving him in my way
when I was half distracted with the worry of keeping the lot of us
out of trouble. What the devil made you? One would think you were
doing it on purpose. And I am damned if I know that you didn’t.
There’s no saying how much of what’s going on you have got hold of
on the sly with your infernal don’t-care-a-damn way of looking
nowhere in particular, and saying nothing at all. . . . ”
His husky domestic voice ceased for a while. Mrs Verloc made no
reply. Before that silence he felt ashamed of what he had said.
But as often happens to peaceful men in domestic tiffs, being
ashamed he pushed another point.
“You have a devilish way of holding your tongue sometimes,” he
began again, without raising his voice. “Enough to make some men
go mad. It’s lucky for you that I am not so easily put out as some
of them would be by your deaf-and-dumb sulks. I am fond of you.
But don’t you go too far. This isn’t the time for it. We ought to
be thinking of what we’ve got to do. And I can’t let you go out
to-night, galloping off to your mother with some crazy tale or
other about me. I won’t have it. Don’t you make any mistake about
it: if you will have it that I killed the boy, then you’ve killed
him as much as I.”
In sincerity of feeling and openness of statement, these words went
far beyond anything that had ever been said in this home, kept up
on the wages of a secret industry eked out by the sale of more or
less secret wares: the poor expedients devised by a mediocre
mankind for preserving an imperfect society from the dangers of
moral and physical corruption, both secret too of their kind. They
were spoken because Mr Verloc had felt himself really outraged; but
the reticent decencies of this home life, nestling in a shady
street behind a shop where the sun never shone, remained apparently
undisturbed. Mrs Verloc heard him out with perfect propriety, and
then rose from her chair in her hat and jacket like a visitor at
the end of a call. She advanced towards her husband, one arm
extended as if for a silent leave-taking. Her net veil dangling
down by one end on the left side of her face gave an air of
disorderly formality to her restrained movements. But when she
arrived as far as the hearthrug, Mr Verloc was no longer standing
there. He had moved off in the direction of the sofa, without
raising his eyes to watch the effect of his tirade. He was tired,
resigned in a truly marital spirit. But he felt hurt in the tender
spot of his secret weakness. If she would go on sulking in that
dreadful overcharged silence – why then she must. She was a master
in that domestic art. Mr Verloc flung himself heavily upon the
sofa, disregarding as usual the fate of his hat, which, as if
accustomed to take care of itself, made for a safe shelter under
the table.
He was tired. The last particle of his nervous force had been
expended in the wonders and agonies of this day full of surprising
failures coming at the end of a harassing month of scheming and
insomnia. He was tired. A man isn’t made of stone. Hang
everything! Mr Verloc reposed characteristically, clad in his
outdoor garments. One side of his open overcoat was lying partly
on the ground. Mr Verloc wallowed on his back. But he longed for
a more perfect rest – for sleep – for a few hours of delicious
forgetfulness. That would come later. Provisionally he rested.
And he thought: “I wish she would give over this damned nonsense.
It’s exasperating.”
There must have been something imperfect in Mrs Verloc’s sentiment
of regained freedom. Instead of taking the way of the door she
leaned back, with her shoulders against the tablet of the