“As though you were worrying.” “Well, why didn’t you take a house where I could slide down the banisters?” This time the feet came down so slowly he felt sure she _wanted_ him to rush out. The rushing out always put him in the wrong. Well, he just wouldn’t. He would stay where he was, that would show her he was indignant. He took out page 38, put in a blank sheet and rattled the keys vigorously. But he felt cheated of a sensation. He always enjoyed bursting out, through the door at the foot of the stairs, and catching her transfixed on the landing, with the big windows behind her--half frightened, half angry. He would not have told her so, but it was partly because she was so pretty there: the outline of her comely defiant head against the light, her smooth arm emerging from the dainty sleeve that caught and held a pearly brightness. How lovely she is, he thought; it’s gruesome for her to be so pretty and talk such nonsense ... she needs someone to pump her full of indigestible compliments, that would silence her---- She was at the telephone. He could hear her talking to the grocer. “I’m sorry, Mr. Cotswold, is it too late to catch the driver? I’ve got some unexpected guests....” He hastened into the hall. “Don’t forget the sardines,” he shouted. She looked at him calmly with the instrument at her mouth. She seemed surprisingly tranquil. “Never mind, then, thank you,” she said to Mr. Cotswold, in the particularly cordial and gracious voice which (George felt) was meant to emphasize the coolness with which she would now speak to him. “If you want sardines you’ll have to go down and get them yourself. The driver’s left.” She went into the sitting room and automatically pulled the blind halfway down. He followed her and raised it to the top of the window again. She sat on the couch, and he was surprised to see a dangerous merriment in her face. “I suppose you think you can shut yourself in here and just let the house run itself,” she said. “Like a sardine.” “I have to do my work, don’t I?” She looked at the sheet in the typewriter, on which was written wildly _Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of this absurd family_. But she did not comment on it, and George felt that this was one of her moments of genius. He wondered, in alarm, what she was going to do with him next. He felt helpless as only a husband can. “Well, anyhow, they pack sardines in oil, not in vinegar,” he said angrily. This sounded so silly it made him angrier still. He closed the door and cried in a fierce undertone, “What’s the idea, this man Martin? Who is he? Is he staying for lunch?” “He’s an artist. I thought you liked artists.” “Yes, but we don’t have to fill the house with ’em.” “I’ve put him in the spare room.” “In the spare room! What about Miss Clyde?” “I haven’t the faintest idea. He seemed to expect it, somehow. He’s a very irresistible person.”