He even steeled his heart to the little tired tremble in her voice that showed the tears were near, and all the time came the distracting sound of baby's mournful screams that no one had time or inclination to soothe. 'You're a bad wife, Dot,' Larrie said, fully persuaded she was. Dot gave a hysterical laugh. 'All this because your food's not ready to put in your mouth; men are as bad as animals in the Zoo when meal time is delayed!' 'You fail in your duty in every respect, look at this kitchen, Dot, think of the dinner, listen to your child.' But Dot, utterly tired and overwrought, burst into a passion of tears and brushed past him. 'I h-h-hate you,' she said, 'I _wish_ I wasn't married to you, oh I _do_ wish I wasn't.' 'And so do I,' returned Larrie grimly. Even dinner did not restore his equanimity, albeit he made a tolerably hearty one with four boiled eggs, quantities of bread and butter, and half a tin of sardines as dessert. Dot stayed out in the garden and refused food entirely. She wept oceans of tired, hot tears and told herself she was the most miserable woman on earth. Later, when only her eyelashes were wet and the quiet evening wind had cooled her cheeks and heart, she still wondered why girls all the world over were in such a hurry to marry. She thought wistfully of her careless, unfettered girlhood that she had cut so short through her own wilfulness. 'I might have had eight more years,' she whispered to herself, 'twenty-five is the proper age to marry, he would have been older and more patient too, and I should never have felt like this.' She put down her head on the old seat back and sobbed again heartbrokenly for 'like this' meant that love was dying. Then the wind dried her tears once more, and she sat staring at a patch of light that fell from the dining-room lamp out upon the little lawn: she was wondering drearily how she should be able to live out all the other days of her life. Larrie stepped out on the verandah, she could see the red of his cigar and the dusky outlines of his figure. 'Dot,' he called. The wind carried his voice over the sleeping flowers, and the wet grass down to the broken seat and flung it at her. She slipped out of her place and stole off towards the piece of ground that was still unreclaimed bush; she could not bear his presence yet. But he saw her white flitting dress and followed. 'The dew's as heavy as it can be, you'll get another cold,' he said, 'come in.' She shook her head without looking at him. 'Come in, and don't be a silly child,' he said. Again she shook her head and walked on. But he caught her arm and turned her gently but firmly round. 'I don't want to have to carry you,' he said. Then he threw his cigar away and spoke gravely. 'Look here, Dot, I'm not going to say anything more about this afternoon, we'll let that go, all I want you to understand is you must give up being childish, and act in a way that befits a married woman. I'm tired of this.'