But it wasn’t her visit to Mrs. Colquhoun that was making her undress so thoughtfully on Wednesday night, but the fact, most disagreeable to have to admit, that she was tired of Stephen. From the beginning of the tête-à-tête walks she had been afraid that presently she might get a little tired of him, and now, after the tenth of them, the thing she feared had happened.
This dejected her, for it was her earnest wish not to get tired of Stephen. He was her Virginia’s loved husband, he was her host; and she wished to feel nothing towards him but the warmest affectionate interest. If she saw less of him, she reflected as she slowly, and with the movements of fatigue, got ready for bed, it would be easier. Wisdom dictated that Stephen should be eked out; but how could one eke out a host so persistent in doing his duty? It was difficult. It was very, very difficult.
She sat a long time pensive by the fire, wondering how she was going to bear any more of these walks to and from church. Good to have a refuge, but sometimes its price....
And while she was sitting thus, Stephen in their bedroom was saying to Virginia: ‘I miss our mother.’
‘Which one?’ asked Virginia, not at first quite following.
‘Ours,’ said Stephen. ‘She hasn’t been here since yours arrived. Have you noticed that, darling?’
‘Indeed I have. And I miss her very much, too. I asked her to come to tea this afternoon, but she didn’t. The message mother brought back wasn’t very clear, I thought.’
There was a pause. Then Stephen said: ‘She is full of tact.’
‘Which one?’ asked Virginia again, who felt—and how mournfully—that he could no longer mean her mother, but tried to hope he did.
‘Ours,’ said Stephen, stroking Virginia’s hair; and presently added, ‘We must make allowances.’