He did not come, so her anger waxed.

'He can lie skulking in bed!' she said to herself. 'Here I've been up
since seven, broiling at it. I should think he's pitying himself. He
ought to have something else to do. He ought to have to go out to work
every morning, like another man, as his son has to do. He has had too
little work. He has had too much his own way. But it's come to a stop
now. I'll servant-housekeeper him no longer.' Beatrice went to clean the step of the front door. She clanged the
bucket loudly, every minute becoming more and more angry. That piece of
work finished, she went into the kitchen. It was twenty past ten. Her
wrath was at ignition point. She cleared all the things from the table
and washed them up. As she was so doing, her anger, having reached full
intensity without bursting into flame, began to dissipate in uneasiness.
She tried to imagine what Siegmund would do and say to her. As she was
wiping a cup, she dropped it, and the smash so unnerved her that her
hands trembled almost too much to finish drying the things and putting
them away. At last it was done. Her next piece of work was to make the
beds. She took her pail and went upstairs. Her heart was beating so
heavily in her throat that she had to stop on the landing to recover
breath. She dreaded the combat with him. Suddenly controlling herself,
she said loudly at Siegmund's door, her voice coldly hostile: 'Aren't you going to get up?' There was not the faintest sound in the house. Beatrice stood in the
gloom of the landing, her heart thudding in her ears.