IT WAS Charles who called us the parasites. The way he said it was surprising, and sudden; he was one of those quiet, reserved sort of men, not given to talking much or stating his opinion, unless upon the most ordinary facts of day by day, so that his outburst, coming as it did towards the end of the long wet Sunday afternoon, when we had none of us done anything but read the papers and yawn and stretch before the fire, had the force of an explosion. We were all sitting in the long low room at Farthings, darker than usual because of the rain, and the French windows gave very little light, chopped as they were in small square panes that added to the beauty of the house from without, but inside had all the appearance of prison bars, oddly depressing.
The grandfather clock in the corner ticked slowly and unevenly; now and again it gave a little cough, hesitating momentarily, like an old man with asthma, then ploughed on again with quiet insistence. The fire in the basket grate had sunk rather low, the mixture of coke and coal had caked in a solid lump, giving no warmth, and the logs that had been flung carelessly on top earlier in the afternoon smouldered in dull fashion, needing the bellows to coax them into life. The papers were strewn about the floor, and the empty cardboard covers of gramophone records were amongst them, along with a cushion that had fallen from the sofa. These things may have added to Charles’s irritation. He was an orderly man, with a methodical mind, and looking back now with the realisation that his mind was at that time labouring under heavy strain, that he had in fact reached a point where it was imperative that he should make up his mind about the future and come to a decision, it is understandable to see that these little things, the untidiness of the room, the casual careless sprawling atmosphere of the whole house that pervaded when Maria came for the week end, and which he had endured now for so many months and years, acted as the first spark to fan the boiling resentment into flame.
The grandfather clock in the corner ticked slowly and unevenly; now and again it gave a little cough, hesitating momentarily, like an old man with asthma, then ploughed on again with quiet insistence. The fire in the basket grate had sunk rather low, the mixture of coke and coal had caked in a solid lump, giving no warmth, and the logs that had been flung carelessly on top earlier in the afternoon smouldered in dull fashion, needing the bellows to coax them into life. The papers were strewn about the floor, and the empty cardboard covers of gramophone records were amongst them, along with a cushion that had fallen from the sofa. These things may have added to Charles’s irritation. He was an orderly man, with a methodical mind, and looking back now with the realisation that his mind was at that time labouring under heavy strain, that he had in fact reached a point where it was imperative that he should make up his mind about the future and come to a decision, it is understandable to see that these little things, the untidiness of the room, the casual careless sprawling atmosphere of the whole house that pervaded when Maria came for the week end, and which he had endured now for so many months and years, acted as the first spark to fan the boiling resentment into flame.
