LIFE AT FERNHILL
The Fernhill breakfast table was very characteristic of the Canterton ménage.
Gertrude Canterton came down ten minutes after the gong had sounded, bustling into the room with every sign of starting the day in a rush. Her hair looked messy, with untidy strands at the back of her neck. She wore any old dress that happened to come to hand, and as often as not she had a piece of tape hanging out, or a hook and eye unfastened. Breakfast time was not her hour. She looked yellow, and thin, and voracious, and her hands began fidgeting at once with the pile of letters and circulars beside her plate.
Canterton had half finished breakfast. He and his wife were as detached from each other at table as they were in all their other relationships. Gertrude was quite incapable of pouring out his tea, and never remembered whether the sugar was in or not. She always plunged straight into her chaotic correspondence, slitting the envelopes and wrappers with a table knife, and littering the whole of her end of the table with paper. She complained of the number of letters she received, but her restless egoism took offence if she was not pestered each morning.
Canterton had something to tell her, something that a curious sense of the fitness of things made him feel that she ought to know. It did not concern her in the least, but he always classed Gertrude and formalism together.
“I have arranged with Miss Carfax to paint the illustrations for my book.”
Gertrude was reading a hospital report, her bacon half cold upon her plate.
“One moment, James.”
He smiled tolerantly, and passed her his cup by way of protest.
“Anyhow, I should like some more tea.”