“I think it’s a little hard,” she said, “that one’s husband should behave as if one were a complete stranger, or, worse still, an ordinary acquaintance. You might perhaps take more interest in a stranger. I don’t think I want very much, a little sympathy and some sign of affection.” He was sitting on the bed. “That’s all right, dear, only you must admit that you’re a little hard to understand. Here during the last two days you’ve been as cross as it’s possible for anyone to be about nothing at all, and then suddenly you want one to slobber. You go up and down so fast that it’s simply impossible for an ordinary mortal to follow you.” “Isn’t that charming?” she said, looking at the blue pincushion, “such a delightful way to speak to one’s wife.” Then suddenly she crossed over to him. “No, dear. I didn’t mean that really, it was silly of me. Only I do need a little sympathy sometimes. Little things, you know, matter to us women; we remember and notice.” “That’s all right.” He put his arm round her neck and kissed her, then he jumped into bed. “We’ll talk to-morrow.” He nestled into the clothes with a little sigh of satisfaction; in a moment he was snoring. She sat on the bed and stared in front of her. Her hair was down and she looked very young. Most of the room was in shadow, but her dressing-table glittered under the electric light; the silver things sparkled like jewels, the gleam fell on the blue dress and travelled past it to the wall. She swung her feet angrily. How dare he go to sleep all in a moment in that ridiculous manner? His kiss had seemed a step towards sentiment, and now, in a moment, he was snoring. Oh! that showed how much he cared! Why had she ever married him? At the thought of the splendid times that she might have been having with some one else, with some splendid strong man who could take her in his arms until she could scarcely breathe, some one who would understand her when she wanted to talk and not go fast off to sleep, some one, well, like Mr. Maradick, for instance, her eyes glittered. She looked at the room, moved across the floor and switched off the lights. She crept into bed, moving as far away from her husband as possible. He didn’t care—nobody cared—she belonged to nobody in the world. She began to sob, and then she thought, of the picnic; well, he had cared and understood. He would not have gone to sleep . . . soon she was dreaming.