Had she not—but at this juncture he went out and slammed the door.
And as he went he quoted from Kipling, saying: 'And now I know that she never will know, and never will understand.'
One day he fell ill with a hard cold; and then indeed she became the devoted wife. A better nurse never lived. She was simply delightful, while he was confined to the house as her patient.
But the moment he was up and out she became the nagging woman, with a mania for order, economy, and neatness; and all her tenderness and sweetness vanished into the acrid and severe manner of the thrifty housewife. She was a nurse and missionary and housekeeper—not a wife. And he was simply starving for love, for companionship, for good fellowship, for freedom, for happiness.
She was unable to see or understand his needs, beyond those of an orderly house, and a bank account which was not overdrawn. She was utterly devoid of the least touch of coquetry. Her severe, neat manner of dress indicated her temperament.
One day he complimented the appearance of a young woman who was given to plumes and ribbons, and who wore her hat with an air of one who knew she would be looked at by men.
'I think her type very loud and tasteless,' his wife said coldly. 'She is the kind of girl who would run her husband into debt without a qualm of conscience, in order to gratify her whims. But I begin to think that is the type of woman a man admires.'
All her judgments were severe. She had no mercy for any human frailty. A woman of that nature, who is perpetually nagging a man for leaving a book in the hammock, a hat on a table, cigar ashes on the floor, or a chair out of place, and who is cold and undemonstrative in her disposition, drives Cupid from the window, or else flings wide the door for his departure.
When Cupid went forth from this home the man went also.