The facts are that a struggle has just begun with some of the unpoetic realities of existence, of which neither has ever before dreamed.
Perhaps the wife must rise early, prepare the breakfast, keep the rooms in order. This is work.
The husband goes to business.
Business perplexes.
“Oh, she is just like other women!”
“Oh, he is just a common man!”
They complain.
The cosmic urge has nothing to do with any of this. It has come—and gone, perhaps.
There is left a social situation. These two young people have had something in common, and possibly only a transitory something.
How shall they live together when she loves what he hates, and he has hopes, ambitions, desires that are nothing to her?