"The trouble?"
"Yes, Nancy, the trouble. Do you think I'm such a fool that I don't see it? It's been coming on a long time. I know you're not happy. You're not satisfied with things as they are. As they are, you know, there's a sort of incompleteness, something wanting, isn't there?"
She sighed. "It's you who are putting it that way, not I."
"Of course I'm putting it that way. How am I to put it any other way? Let me think now—well—of course I know perfectly well that it's not a piano, or a reading-stand, or a sofa that you want, any more than I do. We want the same thing, sweetheart."
She smiled sadly. "Do we? I should have said the trouble is that we don't want the same thing, and never did."
"I don't understand you."
"Nor I you. You think I'm always wanting something. What is it that you think I want?"
"Well—do you remember Westleydale?"
She drew back. "Westleydale? What has put that into your head?"
He grew desperate under her evasions, and plunged into his theme. "Well, that jolly baby we saw there—in the wood—you looked so happy when you grabbed it, and I thought, perhaps—"