Jane was reading in the drawing-room when William reached home that night. “Had a nice day?” asked William. “Quite nice,” said Jane. “Play golf?” asked William. “Just practised,” said Jane. “Lunch at the club?” “Yes.” “I thought I saw that bloke Spelvin in town,” said William. Jane wrinkled her forehead. “Spelvin? Oh, you mean Rodney Spelvin? Did you? I see he’s got a new book coming out.” “You never run into him these days, do you?” “Oh no. It must be two years since I saw him.” “Oh?” said William. “Well, I’ll be going upstairs and dressing.” It seemed to Jane, as the door closed, that she heard a curious clicking noise, and she wondered for a moment if little Braid had got out of bed and was playing with the Mah-Jongg counters. But it was only William gnashing his teeth. * * * * * There is nothing sadder in this life than the spectacle of a husband and wife with practically identical handicaps drifting apart; and to dwell unnecessarily on such a spectacle is, to my mind, ghoulish. It is not my purpose, therefore, to weary you with a detailed description of the hourly widening of the breach between this once ideally united pair. Suffice it to say that within a few days of the conversation just related the entire atmosphere of this happy home had completely altered. On the Tuesday, William had excused himself from the morning round on the plea that he had promised Peter Willard a match, and Jane said What a pity! On Tuesday afternoon William said that his head ached, and Jane said Isn’t that too bad? On Wednesday morning William said he had lumbago, and Jane, her sensitive feelings now deeply wounded, said Oh, had he? After that, it came to be agreed between them by silent compact that they should play together no more. Also, they began to avoid one another in the house. Jane would sit in the drawing-room, while William retired down the passage to his den. In short, if you had added a couple of ikons and a photograph of Trotsky, you would have had a _mise en scène_ which would have fitted a Russian novel like the paper on the wall. One evening, about a week after the beginning of this tragic state of affairs, Jane was sitting in the drawing-room, trying to read _Braid on Taking Turf_. But the print seemed blurred and the philosophy too metaphysical to be grasped. She laid the book down and stared sadly before her.