CHAPTER III
Gareth did not start his book that night. Kathleen was still up on his return to Pacific Villa; and, lamely, he had to explain the taxi. In their financial condition—his yearly salary amounted to two hundred and seventy pounds—taxicabs were extravagances to be contemplated only when matters of extreme importance were at stake. Gareth did not happen to be a liar by nature, to assert that he had felt ill; nor was he a diplomat, to have resorted to the expedient of stopping the car at the corner of the road. He said simply "I just thought I would like a drive, Kath," and waited for the storm.
She made cold reply: "It's your money, of course. I've written to Ilfracombe. Shall we go to bed now? It's late."
His money, of course. But their room—their bed—their house. It would have been good, that night of nights, to come home to some place of emptiness where unquestioned he could have written far into the night.
Kathleen, as she fumbled for matches to light the gas, reflected how good it would have been also to have motored that hot night; driven away from these poky quarters for a space of time, and hear Gareth say recklessly, "Hang the money! I just thought you'd like a drive, Kath."
"Gareth, the mantle is smashed again."
"Is it?"
"See if you can find another, will you?"
He did not start his book that night.
The inspiration came and went fitfully during the ensuing fortnight. But there was no place where it might take concrete form. Not at the office, certainly. And at home in the evenings, when the dining-room table was cleared away, and Watts' "Love and Life" presided over the stained walls and worn red furniture—how could he recapture his exaltation there, anticipating Kathleen's natural questions directly he brought forth pencil and paper-pad. If he returned an evasive reply, she would not ask again, that he knew. But he would all the while be conscious of her shut-out condition, of her mind torturing itself with reasons and wherefores, of her laborious care in seeming to take no notice. Once, after some condemnatory self-searchings, she had started to take an interest in his office-work, convinced that here lay a remedy for their failure to find oneness. She read quicker than he, was quicker also to condemn, and after her tongue had scorched a romance, his greater tolerance and insight found the task of gathering the ashes too difficult. He had to ask her to desist from reading. This she brooded over long: was it petty jealousy on his part? Had she made a fool of herself in asking to help? No outlet for her energies then, save the domestic hearth. So the legendary cricket was ousted by a veritable hurricane, resulting from the uncompromising fierceness she threw into her mild offices. She changed her tradesmen continually; and no servant stopped long at Pacific Villa.