“Is there anything within my means that you haven’t got?”
Clare looked at him in a peculiar way, and answered quietly—
“I haven’t a child,” she said.
“Oh, Lord,” said Herbert uneasily. “Whose fault is that? Besides, modern life in small flats is not cut out for children.”
“And modern life in small flats,” said Clare, “is not cut out for wives.”
“It isn’t my fault,” said Herbert. “I am not the architect—either of fate or flats.”
“No, it isn’t your fault, Herbert. You can’t help your character. It isn’t your fault that when you come home from the city you fall asleep after dinner. It isn’t your fault that when you go to the club I sit at home with my hands in my lap, thinking and brooding. It isn’t your fault that your mother and I get on each other’s nerves. It isn’t your fault that you and I have grown out of each other, that we bore each other and have nothing to say to each other—except when we quarrel.”
“Well, then,” said Herbert, “whose fault is it?”
“I don’t know,” said Clare. “I suppose it’s a fault of the system, which is spoiling thousands of marriages just like ours. It’s the fault which is found out—in the Eighth Year.”
“Oh, curse the Eighth Year,” said Herbert violently. “What is that bee you have got in your bonnet?”