The man arose from his seat and rushed from the room. Clarinda stood upon this memorable morning in the doorway as he went away. She looked after him as he went rapidly down the stairs, and slowly she closed the door behind her.
Clarinda felt the negation of the man’s service. She craved the kiss he had given her each morning. She did not sing when she closed the door, nor did she rush to the window and wait for him to pass the corner. From that moment a wound had been made in her heart and the blood dripped from the gash.
The man did not fail to kiss his wife through malice. Kisses had simply grown stale in his mouth, and now seemed to him a useless observance.
He thought of these things as he went along, and the more he turned them over in his mind, the more convinced he became he had made a mistake. The thought of these things remained with him all the morning, and for some unexplained reason he did not work as well. He lacked interest and the work dragged more than ordinarily. Still he argued within himself as if to justify his position, that kissing was a foolish observance and it ought to be laid aside.
The day dragged for him, and the clocks in the various steeples struck the hours with the same indifference as they did every day. The crowds on the pavements went by as on every other day, with the same intent upon their own difficulties.
Clarinda, left alone in the tiny flat, knew something was wrong. Her day was different. Her heart was wrong, and tears collected on her face many times during the hours that went by. And she knew—why.
The trim little maid came and touched her upon the shoulder as she sat cuddled in a corner of the divan. She was a Frenchwoman, with a white frill about her head. A smile of pity was on her lips, as she kindly touched Clarinda, and her hand was as light as the breeze without, as Clarinda moved and looked up into her face.
“It is the little things in life, Madame, that count,” she said. Clarinda shook her head in assent.
“I am miserable,” Clarinda replied.
Clarinda pushed back her golden hair from her forehead, wiped the tears from her face, and arose from the divan. The maid left as she arose, and went about her duties. She dusted with care and with careful hand replaced the flowers in the vases with fresh ones.