"What's the matter with me that I feel so restless and dull? I ought to be contented and happy, but I'm not. I'm bored to death, and the trouble of it is,--I can't think why! I've everything I could wish for, and I'm as unsatisfied as if I'd nothing. In the name of fortune, my dear, _what do you want_?--It comes to this--I'm either a morbid, introspective, weak-minded fool or else I'm noble and fine, and am stretching out for higher things. I'd like to think it was the last, but I'm not at all sure! I don't long to be great or noble, or superior in any way--only just to be happy, and at rest... I wonder if by chance I'm unhappily married? That would account for so much. I wonder if I ruined my life when I gave in, and said `yes' to Bernard! If I did, it was with the best intentions. I _was_ fond of him. When a dull, quiet man gets really worked up, there's something extraordinarily compelling. And I expected he'd _stay_ worked up. At eighteen any girl would. There ought to be a Bureau of Matrimonial Intelligence to prevent them from making such mistakes. I'd be the secretary, and say: `My dear, he won't! This is only a passing conflagration. It will die out, and he'll revert to the normal. You'll have to live with the normal till death do you part. It doesn't follow that you'll quarrel... Ah! my dear girl, there are so many worse things! It's deplorable, of course, to quarrel with one's husband, but the reconciliation might be worth the pain. You might put your head on his shoulder, and say: "It was every bit your fault, and the rest was mine. Kiss me! and we'll never do it again!" and he'd choose the prettiest dimple, and kiss you there, and do it so nicely, you'd long to quarrel again. Oh, yes, there are points about quarrelling, but it's so hopelessly uningratiating to be--bored. The worse you feel, the less you can say. Imagine telling a man that he bored you to extinction, and expecting to be kissed in return! Being bored goes on and on, and never works itself off'... Bernard is good and loyal, and honourable, and just,--and I'm _so_ tired of him. I _am_; and I can't pretend any longer. We've lived together in peace and boredom for ten long years, and something within me seems wearing out-- "I wonder how many married people come up against this hurdle? Its name is satiety, and it is bristling with difficulties. I've a suspicion that if one could get cleanly over, it would be a safe trot home. But it blocks the way. I'm up against it now--"