He smiled grimly as he looked out of the window. He did not whine or complain. There were doubtless thousands and thousands of other people in the same case—only, what a muddle! what a silly, hideous muddle.
He was forty, and in perfect health. He looked at his wife again. She was happy enough; she had her house and her friends and her girls! She did not want anything at all. And they would go on, of course, to the end of things like that. For years now it had been the same thing. He had played the game, and she had never guessed that he wanted anything; she had probably never thought about him at all.
He was forty, and life was over—its adventures, its emotions, its surprises, its vices, its great romance; he was a bird in a cage, and he had put himself inside and locked the door. He looked at his girls; they aroused no emotion whatever, he did not care for them at all. That was wrong, of course, but it was quite true; and then it was equally true that they didn’t care for him. His head began to nod, and at last he was asleep. He was dreaming of the station and poor Tom Craddock—he grew fatter and fatter—he filled the carriage—everyone had to squeeze against the wall to get out of his way—Tom, Tom—this won’t do, really—have some consideration. . . .
There was perfect silence in the carriage. The girls had not spoken a word since the journey began. The shining landscape flew past them; things darted up at the window; cows and trees and hedges and telegraph wires leapt wildly up and down for no apparent reason whatever. At last an official arrived and commanded them to take their places for lunch, and there was instant confusion. Mrs. Maradick sailed into the dining-car followed closely by her girls; Maradick brought up the rear.
Her sleep had refreshed her, and she was bright and amusing. “Now, James, look your brightest. Well, Annie darling, and was the Girl’s Realm amusing? Yes? I’m so glad, and what was the thing that you liked best?”
Annie spoke softly and deliberately. “There was a story, mother, about a girl’s adventures in America that I liked rather, also an article on ‘How to learn the Violin’ was very good.” She folded her hands on her lap and looked straight in front of her.
But Mrs. Maradick was deep in the menu. “It’s always roast mutton or boiled lamb,” she exclaimed; “I never knew anything so monotonous—and cheese or sweet”—she dived into her soup with relish.
“It’s really not so bad,” she cried a little later. “And they do have the things hot, which is so important. Think, girls, we’re half-way already. We’ll be in splendid time for dinner. I wonder who’ll be there this year. There were those nice Jacksons last year—you remember—that Miss Jackson with the fuzzy hair and the short skirt—quite nice people, they were. I don’t think you took to them much, James.”
“No, I didn’t care very much about them,” he replied grimly.
“No—such a pity. We so often like different people. And then there were the Dalrymples—quite nice—and Lucy Dalrymple was such a good friend for the girls; you remember Lucy, don’t you, dears?”