The Trespasser

In the morning Beatrice was disturbed by the sharp sneck of the hall

door. Immediately awake, she heard his quick, firm step hastening down

the gravel path. In her impotence, discarded like a worn out object, she

lay for the moment stiff with bitterness.

'I am nothing, I am nothing,' she said to herself. She lay quite rigid

for a time.

There was no sound anywhere. The morning sunlight pierced vividly

through the slits of the blind. Beatrice lay rocking herself, breathing

hard, her finger-nails pressing into her palm. Then came the sound of a

train slowing down in the station, and directly the quick

'chuff-chuff-chuff' of its drawing out. Beatrice imagined the sunlight

on the puffs of steam, and the two lovers, her husband and Helena,

rushing through the miles of morning sunshine.

'God strike her dead! Mother of God, strike her down!' she said aloud,

in a low tone. She hated Helena.

Irene, who lay with her mother, woke up and began to question her.