“Knew what?” asked Herbert, exasperated beyond all patience. “About the Eighth Year.” “What about it?” “It’s well known, she says, that the Eighth Year is the most dangerous one in marriage. It is then that the pull comes, when the wife has found out her husband.” “Found out her husband?” “And found out herself.” Herbert spoke roughly. He was not in a mood for such mysteries. “Look here,” he said. “I can’t listen to all this nonsense. Go and dress yourself.” “I want to talk to you, Herbert,” said Clare very earnestly. “I must talk to you before it’s too late.” “It’s too late now,” said Herbert. “Halfpast six. I must fetch that whisky and buy a few flowers. I shall have to put on my boots again and splash about in the mud in these trousers. Confound it!” “Before you go you must listen, Herbert,” said Clare, with a sign of emotion. “Perhaps you won’t have another chance.” “Thank Heaven for that.” “When I broke that window something else broke.” “One of my best vases,” said Herbert with sarcasm. “I think something in my own nature broke too. My spirit has broken out of this narrow, deadening little life of ours, out of the smug snobbishness and stupidity which for so long kept me prisoner, out of the belief that the latest sentimental novel, the latest romantic play, the latest bit of tittle-tattle from my neighbors might satisfy my heart and brain. When I broke that window I let a little fresh air into the stifling atmosphere of this flat, where I have been mewed up without work, without any kind of honest interest, without any kind of food for my brain or soul.” Herbert stared at his wife, and made an impatient gesture. “If you want work, why don’t you attend to your domestic duties?” “I have no domestic duties,” said Clare. “That is the trouble.” Herbert laughed in an unpleasant way. “Why, you haven’t even bought any flowers to decorate your home! Isn’t that a domestic duty?” Clare answered him quickly, excitedly. “It’s just a part of the same old hypocrisy of keeping up appearances. You know you don’t care for flowers in themselves, except as they help to make a show. You want to impress our guests. You want to keep up the old illusion of the woman’s hand in the home. The woman’s touch. Isn’t that it?” “Yes, I do want to keep up that illusion,” said Herbert; “and by God, I find it very hard! You say you want an object in life. Isn’t your husband an object?” Clare looked at him with a queer, pitiful smile. “Yes, he is,” she said slowly. “Well, what more do you want?” “Lots more. A woman’s life is not centered for ever in one man.” “It ought to be,” said Herbert. “If you had any religious principles----” “Oh,” said Clare sharply, “but you object to my religion!” “Well, of course I mean in moderation.” “You have starved me, Herbert, and oh, I am so hungry!” Herbert answered her airily. “Well, there will be light refreshments later.”