He stood where she had left him, a look of annoyed surprise upon his face. It was a real shock to him, and a disagreeable one. He preferred to think that Claudia was quite satisfied with their marriage. She had never before complained of any specific thing. She did not now. He told himself irritably that he wished she would, it would make it so much easier to give her what she wanted. The worst of women was that they were so vague in their demands and their complaints. Men can usually put down in black and white what they want; women never. He loved her, she was his wife, she shared his honor and the brilliant prospects for the future. What more did she want? Why did women talk in such an exaggerated way nowadays? Surely it was her fault if she were not satisfied? He had never pretended to any Paolo or Romeo-like passion; he had given her instead a much more useful commodity in the twentieth century—the good, honest heart of a real man, instead of the mawkish sentiment of an unbusiness-like poet. He had never run after other women as did so many of the men he knew. Of course, Claudia might say he had not had the time to do so, which was true. But probably he could have made some time if he had wanted to amuse himself. It was true that he had not wanted to make love to any woman. After he had indulged his natural passions in marrying Claudia, women had dropped into the background again. Even the desultory emotions which used to stir within him had not agitated him. He could have lived a virtuous bachelor life with the greatest of ease.
Claudia had dropped her gloves on the hearthrug and left a soft, cloudy chiffon scarf on the leathern armchair. With the sense of tidiness and order that characterized him, he picked them up.
Did women know what they wanted nowadays? Was it not the signs of the mental inflammation of the times?
Perhaps it was the scent from the scarf—Claudia used some delicate, haunting perfume—that caused an idea to strike him, a very mundane masculine idea, but still it had the grace of at least a faint touch of imagination. The perfume revived memories.... There was that night at Fyvie Castle on their honeymoon, when they had watched the moon shining on the loch from her window, he remembered the sweetness of her body nestling against him on the old window-seat ... once he had awakened with that perfume in his nostrils and found her arms around his neck.... It had been playtime then, but women were only children masquerading as grown-ups. Had he found the key to her queer speech? Was that what she had meant? Yes, in that way he had been very neglectful the last few months and married women had a right.... He recalled that she had sometimes looked rather wistfully at him when he kissed her good-night outside her door.... Oh, yes! that was the trouble. How stupid of him!
He stopped to put away a few papers and then, ten minutes later, he knocked at the door which divided their rooms.
He waited, but there was no answer. He gently tried the handle. The door was locked.
He listened intently and he thought he heard a sound like a sob strangled in a pillow.
“Claudia, Claudia, may I come in?”
Now there was no sound at all.