On the journey home I had an opportunity for coolly regarding things in themselves, with particular reference to my marriage. By then I knew for certain that Ethel would never leave me of her own accord. She had everything she wanted, a title, money to burn, a circle of sycophants, a husband she could dominate. Could she? I supposed so, for the dread of scenes is the beginning and end of feminine domination in the case of men of my type, weak, introspective, with sensitive ears and a tantalising tolerance. I say _tantalising_ because, were I asked to prescribe for the matrimonial troubles of others, I should be cool, hard, a rationalist, a regarder of facts in the face. I should prescribe for those in my state a drastic, cauteristic remedy, and feel confident of its efficacy. “No sentimentalist need apply” I should inscribe on my brass plate. “Physician, heal thyself,” the hardest of all hard sayings! But this is how I should prescribe in a case such as mine. “Force a divorce, you will never be happy. You know her chief concern is money, settle some on her. Living with her seems the Devil, well, take him by the horns.” Perfectly sound, common sense itself, but I couldn’t do it. A week after getting back I received a cable, “Returning immediately. Ethel.” This unexpected announcement filled me with a vague excitement. What had she been up to? Something which might lead to a solution--a dissolution? I enjoyed twenty-four hours of such straw-clutching, and then she arrived, and, as was her wont, went straight and viciously to the point. “I’m going to have a baby, and I won’t have a baby. You’ve got to help me. It’ll spoil everything. I don’t care how much you want it. Tell me someone to go to.” “I shall do nothing of the kind,” I replied. “Certainly I want you to have a child, and you’ll be much happier. Now, Ethel, be unselfish about this!” “Happier! Unselfish! I like that. You don’t have to spend nine foul months, be cut out of everything, and probably have your figure ruined. I refuse to argue about it. Will you help me?” “No, I won’t,” I said. She said no more, but in ten minutes she was on her way to London. I heard nothing more from her for a fortnight, and then one evening she came back. She went straight to her room, refused to see me, and dined in bed. However, I went up to her after dinner. She was shaking with anger, and her eyes were those of a trapped lynx. “I told you I didn’t want to see you, but now you’re here let me tell you this, I will _never_ bear your child.” I think it was then, when I saw her hatred for me, that I first knew I hated her, and I suppose the murderer in me first woke to life.