Siegmund passed the afternoon in a sort of stupor. At tea-time Beatrice,
who had until then kept herself in restraint, gave way to an outburst of
angry hysteria.

'When does your engagement at the Comedy Theatre commence?' she had
asked him coldly.

He knew she was wondering about money.

'Tomorrow--if ever,' he had answered.

She was aware that he hated the work. For some reason or other her anger
flashed out like sudden lightning at his 'if ever'.

'What do you think you _can_ do?' she cried. 'For I think you have done
enough. We can't do as we like altogether--indeed, indeed we cannot. You
have had your fling, haven't you? You have had your fling, and you want
to keep on. But there's more than one person in the world. Remember
that. But there are your children, let me remind you. Whose are they?
You talk about shirking the engagement, but who is going to be
responsible for your children, do you think?' 'I said nothing about shirking the engagement,' replied Siegmund, very
coldly.

'No, there was no need to say. I know what it means. You sit there
sulking all day. What do you think _I_ do? I have to see to the
children, I have to work and slave, I go on from day to day. I tell you
_I'll_ stop, I tell you _I'll_ do as I like. _I'll_ go as well. No, I
wouldn't be such a coward, you know that. You know _I_ wouldn't leave
little children--to the workhouse or anything. They're my children; they
mightn't be yours.' 'There is no need for this,' said Siegmund contemptuously.