This evening he began his daily record:
I have shut myself up in my—
“In my own room,” he was going to write, but that was not exact. It was Mildred’s room, too. She could come in if she liked. He couldn’t really shut himself up anywhere on earth. He crossed out the last two words, and leaned his head on his hands, struggling valiantly to be just, fair, and exact, and to crush down the extraordinary emotions that outrageous woman aroused in him.
Never, before his marriage, had he felt such fury, such unreasonable, ungovernable exasperation. He had had a well deserved reputation for being a strong, self-controlled, moderate young man. That was one reason why he had risen high in the credit department of a mammoth store—because he could handle angry, cajoling, or desperate customers so firmly and calmly; and here in his own home he was utterly defeated.
He raised his head and looked about him. He saw Mildred’s things everywhere, crowding and jostling his things—even her silly white comb standing up in one of his military brushes.
“Well, what of it?” he asked himself. “I’m orderly and she’s not. I always knew that.”
No use—he could not be philosophic about it. He got up and removed the comb with a jerk. As he did so, he caught sight of his own face in the mirror. It startled him. It was a strained and haggard face.
“I can’t stand this!” he said to himself. “This can’t go on!”
And just at this moment the door burst open and she—the cause of all his exasperation—appeared in the doorway.
“Edward!” she said in a furious, trembling voice. “Will you get that ladder, or won’t you?”