"Well," he hesitated, "night-night, in case you don't sit up."
"Good night," she replied. "I shan't sit up."
"You might make up the fire before you go to bed, though, there's a dear girl."
She did not answer, and he went out; she followed him to the doorway, and stood there watching him put on his overcoat and muffler again. His pipe was between his teeth; he removed it for a second to kiss her cheek hastily, then restored it. With a hysterical anger held feverishly in check, she thought that male imperturbability, male selfishness, were incredible.
"Night-night!" he said again, going out. "I'll bring you a programme."
The door shut. She was alone. She advanced passionately upon the strewn dinner-table; it waited there to be cleared by the work of her hands, as imperturbable as he.
She dashed off the candle-shades first.
"What a day!" she gasped.
Early morning and the awakening in the cold, the brushing of grates and the lighting of fires, the sweeping and cooking, to get a man off warmed and comfortable to business; the long, long hours of silence and domestic tasks, waiting for his return; his return to his food; his departure again; a desolate evening of silence and domestic tasks—these were that span of hope and promise called a day.
Married life!