"Surely to God you're solitary enough?"
"You don't know the meaning of solitude," he answered, "because you've never tried it."
"'Never tried it!' What's my life?"
"You imagine your life's lonely and even such loneliness as ours—so to call it—casts you down and makes you miserable. Solitude is no physic for you, and I dare say, if we lived in a town, you'd be a happier woman."
"I'm not lonely really—I know that. Life's a bustling thing—even mine."
"Company is your food and my poison," he answered. "That's how it is. Loneliness—what I call loneliness—is as much beyond my power to get, as company—what you call company—is beyond your power. We've made our bed together and must lie upon it."
"You ought to have thought of that sooner, if you wanted to be a hermit, for ever out of sight of your fellow-creatures."
"We've made our bed," he answered, "and what we've got to do is to keep our eyes on the bright side. Nobody's life pans out perfect. My idea of a good time would be a month at Huntingdon all alone."
"That wasn't your idea of a good time when you married me; and if you say that, it only means I've changed you and made you hunger for what you never wanted before you married."
"You needn't argue it so, Margery. I might as well say that you were happy with me at Red House long ago, and didn't want anybody else but me. Life changes our tastes and appetites; life laughs at us, while it makes us cry sometimes. I want Huntingdon for contrast, because home often comes between me and my best thoughts—because home often fouls my thoughts, if you must know. And you—home makes you hunger for change—change—new ideas—new voices—new faces. Why not? I don't blame you. We are both smitten and must bend to the rod."