Upstairs, I sat before our study fire without daring to look at Helen. She stopped brushing out her hair and perched on the arm of my chair, putting her cheek against mine.
"What do you want me to say, Ted?"
"If you speak the truth you'll say that you have married an incompetent fool who messes up everything he tries to do."
"Don't let it hurt you so, Ted, darling."
"It was my job to find out, and I didn't. You can't get away from that."
Helen rumpled my hair pensively. Each of us had several things to say; the difficulty was to say them. Helen went on silently stroking my head.
"I try to think—why the devil does it always seem afterwards as if I hadn't thought at all?"
I proposed this conundrum to her. Helen gave me her hand to kiss.
"I won't be so stupid as to try to make excuses for you," said Helen, tucking up snugly against my shoulder. "Let's own up honestly we made a mistake, Ted. For I must be to blame somewhere, too. Yes, Ted dear—I know it. Don't go on shaking your head. It isn't comfy. We mustn't make a mistake like this again—that's all. It isn't like us."
"It wasn't just a case of putting my foot in it, sweetheart. I went and sat down in the spilt milk."