I should have realized it was all U.P. this morning when she didn’t get up for breakfast. I did, in a way. But I couldn’t face it. I had the feeling that if I said nothing special and just treated it as one of her bad headache days and went off to the office, by the time I got back this evening the whole affair would have blown over somehow. No, that wasn’t it. I felt a bit like I do now, “helpless.” What was I to do? Just go on. That was all I could think of. So I took her up a cup of tea and a couple of slices of thin bread and butter as per usual on her headache days. The blind was still down. She was lying on her back. I think she had a wet handkerchief on her forehead. I’m not sure, for I couldn’t look at her. It was a beastly feeling. And she said in a weak kind of voice, “Put the jug on the table, will you?” I put it down. I said, “Can I do anything?” And she said, “No. I’ll be all right in half an hour.” But her voice, you know! It did for me. I barged out as quick as I could, snatched my hat and stick from the hall-stand and dashed off for the tram. Here’s a queer thing—you needn’t believe me if you don’t want to—the moment I got out of the house I forgot that about my wife. It was a splendid morning, soft, with the sun making silver ducks on the sea. The kind of morning when you know it’s going to keep hot and fine all day. Even the tram bell sounded different, and the little school kids crammed between people’s knees had bunches of flowers. I don’t know—I can’t understand why—I just felt happy, but happy in a way I’d never been before, happy to beat the band! That wind that had been so strong the night before was still blowing a bit. It felt like her—the other—touching me. Yes, it did. Brought it back, every bit of it. If I told you how it took me, you’d say I was mad. I felt reckless—didn’t care if I was late for the office or not and I wanted to do every one a kindness. I helped the little kids out of the tram. One little chap dropped his cap, and when I picked it up for him and said, “Here, sonny!” ... well, it was all I could do not to make a fool of myself. At the office it was just the same. It seemed to me I’d never known the fellows at the office before. When old Fisher came over to my desk and put down a couple of giant sweet peas as per usual with his “Beat ’em, old man, beat ’em”—I didn’t feel annoyed. I didn’t care that he was riddled with conceit about his garden. I just looked at them and I said quietly, “Yes, you’ve done it this time.” He didn’t know what to make of it. Came back in about five minutes and asked me if I had a headache.