It was only half-past eleven. The silence was oppressive. She opened the window and looked out into the street. Two men were standing down below, bargaining with two women. That was men’s way! If he should ever do anything like that! She should drown herself if he did.
She shut the window and lighted the chandelier in the bedroom. “One ought to be able to see what one is about,” he had once said to her on a certain occasion.—Everything was still so bright and new! The green coverlet looked like a mown lawn, and the little pillows reminded her of two white kittens curled up on the grass. The polish of her dressing-table reflected the light: the mirror had as yet none of those ugly stains which are made by the splashing of water. The silver on the back of her hair-brush, her powder-box, her tooth-brush, all shone and sparkled. Her bedroom slippers were still so new and pretty that it was impossible to picture them down-at-heel. Everything looked new, and yet everything seemed to have lost some of its freshness. She knew all his songs, all his drawing-room pieces, all his words, all his thoughts. She knew before-hand what he would say when he sat down to lunch, what he would talk about when they were alone in the evening.
She was sick of it all. Had she been in love with him? Oh, yes! Certainly! But was this all then? Was she realising all the dreams of her girlhood? Were things to go on like this until she died? Yes! But—but—but—surely they would have children! though there was no sign of it as yet. Then she would no longer be alone! Then he might go out as often as he liked, for she would always have somebody to talk to, to play with. Perhaps it was a baby which she wanted to make her happy. Perhaps matrimony really meant something more than being a man’s legitimate mistress. That must be it! But then, he would have to love her, and he didn’t do that. And she began to cry.
When her husband came home at one o’clock, he was quite sober. But he was almost angry with her when he found her still up.
“Why didn’t you go to bed?” were the words with which he greeted her.
“How can I go to sleep when I am waiting for you?”
“A fine look out for me! Am I never to go out then? I believe you have been crying, too?”
“Yes, I have, and how can I help it if you—don’t—love—me—any—more?”
“Do you mean to say I don’t love you because I had to go out on business?”
“A banquet isn’t business!”