When Miss Ley drove with Edward to the station, Bertha felt suddenly an extreme loneliness. Her aunt had been a barrier between herself and her husband, coming opportunely when, after the first months of mad passion, she was beginning to see herself linked to a man she did not know. A third person in the house had been a restraint. She looked forward already to the future with something like terror; her love for Edward was a bitter heartache. Oh yes, she loved him well, she loved him passionately; but he--he was fond of her, in his placid, calm way; it made her furious to think of it. The weather was rainy, and for two days there was no question of tennis. On the third, however, the sun came out again, and the lawn was soon dry. Edward had driven over to Tercanbury, but returned towards evening. “Hulloa!” he said, “you haven’t got your tennis things on. You’d better hurry up.” This was the opportunity for which Bertha had been looking. She was tired of always giving way, of humbling herself; she wanted an explanation. “You’re very good,” she said, “but I don’t want to play tennis with you any more.” “Why on earth not?” She burst out furiously--“Because I’m sick and tired of being made a convenience by you. I’m too proud to be treated like that. Oh, don’t look as if you didn’t understand. You play with me because you’ve got no one else to play with. Isn’t that so? That is how you are always with me. You prefer the company of the veriest fool in the world to mine. You seem to do everything you can to show your contempt for me.” “Why, what have I done now?” “Oh, of course, you forget. You never dream that you are making me frightfully unhappy. Do you think I like to be treated before people as a sort of poor idiot that you can laugh and sneer at?” Edward had never seen his wife so angry, and this time he was forced to pay her attention. She stood before him, at the end of her speech, with teeth clenched, her cheeks flaming. “It’s about the other day, I suppose. I saw at the time you were in a passion.” “And didn’t care two straws.” “You’re too silly,” he said, with a laugh. “We couldn’t play together when we had people here. They laugh at us as it is for being so devoted to one another.” “If they only knew how little you cared for me!” “I might have managed a set with you later on, if you hadn’t sulked and refused to play at all.” “It would never have occurred to you, I know you better than that. You’re absolutely selfish.” “Come, come, Bertha,” he cried good-humouredly, “that’s a thing I’ve not been accused of before. No one has ever called me selfish.”