"Yes, she liked it pretty well—it is all the place for fashion, and the shops is grand; but she got tired of it too, and we went to Italy."
"Where's that?"
"That's down south. A beast of a place—nothing but sour wine, and all the cookery done in oil, and nothing to do but seeing picture-galleries. I got that sick of it I could stand it no longer, and I said, 'I've 'ad enough of this. I want to go home, where I can get a glass of Burton and a cut from the joint, and where there's a horse worth looking at.'"
"But she was very fond of you. She must have been."
"She was, in her way. But she always liked talking to the singers and the painters that we met out there. Nothing wrong, you know. That was after we had been married about three years."
"What was that?"
"That I caught her out."
"How do you know there was anything wrong? Men always think bad of women."
"No, it was right enough! she had got dead sick of me, and I had got dead sick of her. It never did seem natural like. There was no 'omeliness in it, and a marriage that ain't 'omely is no marriage for me. Her friends weren't my friends; and as for my friends, she never left off insulting me about them. If I was to ask a chap in she wouldn't sit in the same room with him. That's what it got to at last. And I was always thinking of you, and your name used to come up when we was talking. One day she said, 'I suppose you are sorry you didn't marry a servant?' and I said, 'I suppose you are sorry you did?'"
"That was a good one for her. Did she say she was?"