They sat till dinner, Edward methodically going through the _Standard_, column after column; Bertha turning over the pages of her book, trying to understand, but occupied the whole time only with her injuries. They ate the meal almost in silence, for Edward was not talkative. He merely remarked that soon they would be having new potatoes and that he had met Dr. Ramsay. Bertha answered in mono-syllables. “You’re very quiet, Bertha,” he remarked, later in the evening. “What’s the matter?” “Nothing!” “Got a headache?” “No!” He made no more inquiries, satisfied that her silence was due to natural causes. He did not seem to notice that she was in any way different from usual. She held herself in as long as she could, but finally burst out, referring to his remark of an hour before. “Do you care if I have a headache or not?” It was hardly a question so much as a taunt. He looked up with surprise. “What’s the matter?” She looked at him and then, with a gesture of impatience, turned away. But coming to her, he put his arm round her waist. “Aren’t you well, dear?” he asked, with concern. She looked at him again, but now her eyes were full of tears and she could not repress a sob. “Oh, Eddie, be nice to me,” she said, suddenly weakening. “Do tell me what’s wrong.” He put his arms round her and kissed her lips. The contact revived the passion which for an hour had lain a-dying, and she burst into tears. “Don’t be angry with me, Eddie,” she sobbed; it was she who apologised and made excuses. “I’ve been horrid to you; I couldn’t help it. You’re not angry, are you?” “What on earth for?” he asked, completely mystified. “I was so hurt this afternoon because you didn’t seem to care about me two straws. You must love me, Eddie; I can’t live without it.” “You _are_ silly,” he said, laughing. She dried her tears, smiling. His forgiveness comforted her and she felt now trebly happy. Chapter XI But Edward was certainly not an ardent lover. Bertha could not tell when first she had noticed his irresponsiveness; at the beginning she had known only that she loved her husband with all her heart, and her ardour had lit up his somewhat pallid attachment till it seemed to glow as fiercely as her own. Yet gradually she began to think that he made very little return for the wealth of affection which she lavished upon him. The causes of her dissatisfaction were scarcely explicable: a slight motion of withdrawal, an indifference to her feelings--little nothings which had seemed almost comic. Bertha at first likened Edward to the Hippolitus of _Phædra_, he was untamed and wild; the kisses of woman frightened him; his phlegm pleased her disguised as rustic savagery, and she said her passion should thaw the icicles in his heart. But soon she ceased to consider his passiveness amusing, sometimes she upbraided him, and often, when alone, she wept. “I wonder if you realise what pain you cause me at times,” said Bertha.