“Will I do?” He stood there smiling, stroking on his gloves. But although he wouldn’t like her to say the things she often longed to say about his appearance, she did think she detected that morning just the very faintest boyish showing off. Children who know they are admired look like that at their mother. “Yes, you’ll do....” Perhaps at that moment she was proud of him as a mother is proud; she could have blessed him before he went his way. Instead she stood in the porch thinking, “There he goes. The man I’ve married. The stranger who came across the lawn.” The fact was never less wonderful.... It was never less wonderful, never. It was even more wonderful if anything and the reason was—Mona ran back into the house, into the drawing-room and sat down to the piano. Oh, why bother about reasons— She began to sing, See, love, I bring thee flowers To charm thy pain! But joy—joy breathless and exulting thrilled in her voice, on the word “pain” her lips parted in such a happy—dreadfully unsympathetic smile that she felt quite ashamed. She stopped playing, she turned round on the piano stool facing the room. How different it looked in the morning, how severe and remote. The grey chairs with the fuchsia-coloured cushions, the black and gold carpet, the bright green silk curtains might have belonged to anybody. It was like a stage setting with the curtain still down. She had no right to be there, and as she thought that a queer little chill caught her; it seemed so extraordinary that anything, even a chair, should turn away from, should not respond to her happiness. “I don’t like this room in the morning, I don’t like it at all,” she decided, and she ran upstairs to finish dressing. Ran into their big shadowy bedroom ... and leaned over the starry petunias.... A BAD IDEA Something’s happened to me—something bad. And I don’t know what to do about it. I don’t see any way out for the life of me. The worst of it is, I can’t get this thing into focus—if you know what I mean. I just feel in a muddle—in the hell of a muddle. It ought to be plain to anyone that I’m not the kind of man to get mixed up in a thing like this. I’m not one of your actor Johnnies, or a chap in a book. I’m—well, I knew what I was all right until yesterday. But now—I feel helpless, yes, that’s the word, helpless. Here I sit, chucking stones at the sea like a child that’s missed its mother. And everybody else has cut along home hours ago and tea’s over and it’s getting on for time to light the lamp. I shall have to go home too, sooner or later. I see that, of course. In fact, would you believe it? at this very moment I wish I was there in spite of everything. What’s she doing? My wife, I mean. Has she cleared away? Or has she stayed there staring at the table with the plates pushed back? My God! when I think that I could howl like a dog—if you know what I mean....