Mary believed he had made the same inquiry every morning of their married life.... Ten years and five weeks.... Three hundred and sixty-five days in a year....
"Quarter to seven and a cold morning."
"Oh. All right, is it time we were stirring?"
"I think so. Violet has brought the water."
That was what they always said—the same things every morning. And there were so many remarks he might make. He might, for instance, tell her she looked rather nice, sitting there with her two heavy plaits falling across her shoulders, and the strong cream column of her throat rising above the frills of her flannel nightgown. It was a pretty throat, not reddened by exposure like Ursula's; because Mary nearly always wore high collars.
He might tell her she was pretty. That would give colour and excitement to the whole day. Perhaps if she said something pleasant to him he might be induced to return the compliment.
She watched him rear himself slowly from the bed, his great shoulders straining at the pyjama jacket. Clumsily his bare feet groped for his slippers on the floor.
"Eh, John, you great thing!" She laughed up at him softly. "What a giant you are! No wonder they call you 'Big John of Littledale'!"
He had found his slippers, and gathered round his body the dressing-gown from the foot of the bed. Without comment he turned and slouched across the room.
Mary felt as though he had slammed the door in her face. "Fool!" she cried to herself. "Fool! Wasn't I asking for it?"