And so it went on all day. In the evening I dashed home with the home-going crowd, pushed open the gate, saw the hall-door open as it always is and sat down on the little chair just inside to take off my boots. My slippers were there, of course. This seemed to me a good sign. I put my boots into the rack in the cupboard under the stairs, changed my office coat and made for the kitchen. I knew my wife was there. Wait a bit. The only thing I couldn’t manage was my whistling as per usual, “I often lie awake and think, What a dreadful thing is work....” I had a try, but nothing came of it. Well, I opened the kitchen-door and said, “Hullo! How’s everybody?” But as soon as I’d said that—even before—I knew the worst had happened. She was standing at the table beating the salad dressing. And when she looked up and gave a kind of smile and said “Hullo!” you could have knocked me down! My wife looked dreadful—there’s no other word for it. She must have been crying all day. She’d put some white flour stuff on her face to take away the marks—but it only made her look worse. She must have seen I spotted something, for she caught up the cup of cream and poured some into the salad bowl—like she always does, you know, so quick, so neat, in her own way—and began beating again. I said, “Is your head better?” But she didn’t seem to hear. She said, “Are you going to water the garden before or after supper?” What could I say? I said, “After,” and went off to the dining-room, opened the evening paper and sat by the open window—well, hiding behind that paper, I suppose. I shall never forget sitting there. People passing by, going down the road, sounded so peaceful. And a man passed with some cows. I—I envied him. My wife came in and out. Then she called me to supper and we sat down. I suppose we ate some cold meat and salad. I don’t remember. We must have. But neither of us spoke. It’s like a dream now. Then she got up, changed the plates, and went to the larder for the pudding. Do you know what the pudding was? Well, of course, it wouldn’t mean anything to you. It was my favorite—the kind she only made me on special occasions—honey-comb cream.... A MAN AND HIS DOG