As is so often the case with our nearest, if not necessarily our dearest, Mr. Foster was not quite correct in this opinion. As she stood at her bedroom window and watched the centre of her universe inspecting his spring greens with an encouraging eye, Mrs. Foster was holding a quite definite view. She was wishing with singular intensity that the ground would open and swallow her husband up; then, and then only so far as she could see, would she be free from the necessity of going into Abingchester in the big closed car when she had a splitting headache, listening to the cook’s insolence on the subject of burnt sausages, and doing all the other hundred and one other repellent things which the living presence of the cabbage-gazer in the garden imposed upon her. But above all she would never, never have to listen to him talk again. With a faint sigh she turned away from the window. The ground gave no sign of incipient aperture; it never did. She began to put on her aching head the new hat Mr. Foster had chosen for her last week (Mr. Foster always chose his wife’s hats) and which she loathed with singular intensity. If a small fairy in whose veracity he could repose no doubt, had appeared before Mr. Foster among his cabbages at that moment and remarked: “Good morning, Mr. Foster. Do you know that your wife hates you with a degree of detestation quite unparalleled in the annals of Duffley? She does, you know. I thought you might be interested to hear it. Good-morning,” he would, after the initial shock was over, have been filled with complete bewilderment. Why, in the name of Heaven? Why should she? Hadn’t he always been kindness itself to her? And not only kindness but, far more important, patience? Her headache, for instance. He had been most sympathetic about that at breakfast, in spite of the sausages. Naturally he had told her that it doesn’t do to make too much of a fuss about these things, for otherwise the things get bigger than the person; and that really one ought not to refuse to go into Abingchester just on account of a little headache, like an unbalanced schoolgirl. But the point was that he had said it kindly. He had not even hinted for a moment at his opinion that Agatha took trifles just a little bit too seriously, not for a moment. And that again in spite of the sausages. No, the whole thing would have been completely beyond him. It was very fortunate that no little busybody of a fairy put in an appearance after all. Ignorant of his fortunate escape, Mr. Foster pulled out his large gold watch. He frowned. Well past eleven. He had better be going indoors and seeing that Agatha was . . . A low whistle from the fence behind him caused him to turn about sharply.