“You go up to the nursery,” commanded my husband, with more curtness than usual.
But before Dinkie went he slowly crossed the room and kissed me. He did so with a quiet resoluteness which was not without its tacit touch of challenge.
“You may feel that way about the use of the tongue,” said my husband as soon as we were alone, “but I’m going to unload a few things I’ve been keeping under cover.”
He waited for me to say something. But I preferred remaining silent.
“Of course,” he floundered on, “I don’t want to stop you martyrizing yourself in making a mountain out of a mole-hill. But I’m getting a trifle tired of this holier-than-thou attitude. And––”
“And?” I prompted, when he came to a stop and sat pushing up his brindled front-hair until it made 19 me think of the Corean lion on the library mantel, the lion in pottery which we invariably spoke of as the Dog of Fo. My wintry smile at that resemblance seemed to exasperate him.
“What were you going to say?” I quietly inquired.
“Oh, hell!” he exclaimed, with quite unexpected vigor.
“I hope the children are out of hearing,” I reminded him, solemn-eyed.
“Yes, the children!” he cried, catching at the word exactly as a drowning man catches at a lifebelt. “The children! That’s just the root of the whole intolerable situation. This hasn’t been a home for the last three or four years; it’s been nothing but a nursery. And about all I’ve been is a retriever for a crèche, a clod-hopper to tiptoe about the sacred circle and see to it there’s enough flannel to cover their backs and enough food to put into their stomachs. I’m an accident, of course, an intruder to be faced with fortitude and borne with patience.”