Rosie had been in love with him, he supposed. Had he been in love with her? No. He had taken care not to be. On principle. He had married her as a measure of intimate hygiene; out of protective affection, too, certainly out of affection; and a little for amusement, as one might buy a puppy. Mrs. Viveash had opened his eyes; seeing her, he had also begun to notice Rosie. It seemed to him that he had been a loutish cad as well as an imbecile. What should he do about it? He sat for a long time wondering. In the end he decided that the best thing would be to go and tell Rosie all about it, all about everything. About Mrs. Viveash too? Yes, about Mrs. Viveash too. He would get over Mrs. Viveash more easily and more rapidly if he did. And he would begin to try and find out about Rosie. He would explore her. He would discover all the other things besides an incapacity to learn physiology that were in her. He would discover her, he would quicken his affection for her into something livelier and more urgent. And they would begin again; more satisfactorily this time; with knowledge and understanding; wise from their experience. Shearwater got up from his chair before the writing-table, lurched pensively towards the door, bumping into the revolving bookcase and the arm-chair as he went, and walked down the passage to the drawing-room. Rosie did not turn her head as he came in, but went on reading without changing her position, her slippered feet still higher than her head, her legs still charmingly avowing themselves. Shearwater came to a halt in front of the empty fireplace. He stood there with his back to it, as though warming himself before an imaginary flame. It was, he felt, the safest, the most strategic point from which to talk. “What are you reading?” he asked. “_Le Sopha_,” said Rosie. “What’s that?” “What’s that?” Rosie scornfully echoed. “Why, it’s one of the great French classics.” “Who by?” “Crébillon the younger.” “Never heard of him,” said Shearwater. There was a silence. Rosie went on reading. “It just occurred to me,” Shearwater began again in his rather ponderous, infelicitous way, “that you mightn’t be very happy, Rosie.” Rosie looked up at him and laughed. “What put that into your head?” she asked. “_I_’m perfectly happy.” Shearwater was left a little at a loss. “Well, I’m very glad to hear it,” he said. “I only thought ... that perhaps _you_ might think ... that _I_ rather neglected you.” Rosie laughed again. “What is all this about?” she said. “I have it rather on my conscience,” said Shearwater. “I begin to see ... something has made me see ... that I’ve not.... I don’t treat you very well....” “But I don’t n—notice it, I assure you,” put in Rosie, still smiling. “I leave you out too much,” Shearwater went on with a kind of desperation, running his fingers through his thick brown hair. “We don’t share enough together. You’re too much outside my life.”