They rose from their poor repast. (Coffee and mutton-chops had vanished from the board, and another period of cocoa had set in.) He picked up her shawl, that had dropped again, and placed it about her shoulders, and they dragged themselves mournfully back into their sitting-room. She took up her place on the sofa. He dropped into the arm-chair, where he sat motionless, looking dully at the fire. His wife watched him with her faded, tender eyes.
“Arthur,” she said, suddenly, “it’s the first meeting of the Society to-night. Did you forget?” They had never admitted, to themselves or to each other, that they had given it up.
“Yes,” said Arthur, peevishly, “of course I forgot. How on earth did you expect me to remember?”
“I think you ought to go, dear, sometimes. You never went all last winter.”
“I know.”
“Isn’t it a pity not to try—a little—just to keep it up? If it’s only for the children’s sake.”
“My dear Aggie, it’s for the children’s sake—and yours—that I fag my brain out, as it is. When you’ve been as hard at it as I’ve been, all day, you don’t feel so very like turning out again—not for that sort of intellectual game. You say you feel stupid in the afternoon. What do you suppose I feel like in the evening?”
His accents cut Aggie to the heart.
“Oh, my dear, I know. I only thought it might do you good, sometimes, to get a change—if it’s only from me and my stupidity.”
“If there’s one thing I hate more than another,” said Arthur, “it is a change.”