BUT Edward was certainly not an lover. Bertha could not tell when first she had noticed his irresponsiveness; at the beginning she had known only that she loved her husband with all her heart, and her ardour had lit up his somewhat till it seemed to glow as fiercely as her own. Yet gradually she began to think that he made very little return for the wealth of affection which she upon him. The causes of her dissatisfaction were scarcely explicable: a slight motion of , an to her feelings—little nothings which had seemed almost comic. Bertha at first likened Edward to the Hippolitus of Phædra, he was untamed and wild; the kisses of woman frightened him; his phlegm pleased her disguised as , and she said her passion should the icicles in his heart. But soon she ceased to consider his passiveness amusing, sometimes she him, and often, when alone, she wept.  
“I wonder if you realise what pain you cause me at times,” said Bertha.
 
“Oh, I don’t think I do anything of the kind.”
 
“You don’t see it.... When I kiss you, it is the most natural thing in the world for you to push me away, as if—almost as if you couldn’t bear me.”
 
“Nonsense!”
 
To himself Edward was the same now as when they were first married.
 
“Of course after four months of married life you can’t expect a man to be the same as on his . One can’t always be making love and canoodling. Everything in its proper time and season,” he added, with the unoriginal man’s fondness for proverbial philosophy.
After the day’s work he liked to read his Standard in peace, so when Bertha came up to him he put her gently aside.
 
“Leave me alone for a bit, there’s a good girl.”
 
“Oh, you don’t love me,” she cried then, feeling as if her heart would break.
 
He did not look up from his paper nor make reply; he was in the middle of a leading article.
 
“Why don’t you answer?” she cried.
 
“Because you’re talking nonsense.”
 
He was the best-humoured of men, and Bertha’s temper never disturbed his . He knew that women felt a little at times, but if a man gave ’em plenty of rope, they’d calm down after a bit.
 
“Women are like chickens,” he told a friend. “Give ’em a good run, properly closed in with wire netting, so that they can’t get into , and when they cluck and cackle just sit tight and take no notice.”
 
Marriage had made no great difference in Edward’s life. He had always been a man of regular habits, and these he continued to cultivate. Of course he was more comfortable.
 
“There’s no denying it: a fellow wants a woman to look after him,” he told Dr. Ramsay, whom he sometimes met on the latter’s rounds. “Before I was married I used to find my shirts wore out in no time, but now when I see a getting a bit I just give it to the Missis and she makes it as good as new.”
 
“There’s a good deal of extra work, isn’t there, now you’ve taken on the Home Farm?”
 
“Oh, bless you, I enjoy it. Fact is, I can’t get enough work to do. And it seems to me that if you want to make farming pay nowadays you must do it on a big scale.”
 
All day Edward was occupied, if not on the farms, then with business at Blackstable, Tercanbury, and Faversley.
 
“I don’t approve of idleness,” he said. “They always say the devil finds work for idle hands to do, and upon my word I think there’s a lot of truth in it.”
 
Miss Glover, to whom this sentiment was addressed, naturally approved, and when Edward immediately afterwards went out, leaving her with Bertha, she said—
 
“What a good fellow your husband is! You don’t mind my saying so, do you?”
 
“Not if it pleases you,” said Bertha, drily.
 
“I hear praise of him from every side. Of course Charles has the highest opinion of him.”
 
Bertha did not answer, and Miss Glover added, “You can’t think how glad I am that you’re so happy.”
 
Bertha smiled. “You’ve got such a kind heart, Fanny.”
 
The conversation dragged, and after five minutes of heavy silence Miss Glover rose to go. When the door was closed upon her, Bertha sank back in her chair, thinking. This was one of her unhappy days—Eddie had walked into Blackstable, and she had wished to accompany him.
 
“I don’t think you’d better come with me,” he said. “I’m in rather a hurry and I shall walk fast.”
 
“I can walk fast too,” she said, her face clouding over.
 
“No, you can’t—I know what you call walking fast. If you like you can come and meet me on the way back.”
 
“Oh, you do everything you can to hurt me. It looks as if you welcomed an opportunity of being cruel.”
 
“How you are, Bertha. Can’t you see that I’m in a hurry, and I haven’t got time to saunter along and about the buttercups.”
 
“Well, let’s drive in.”
 
“That’s impossible. The isn’t well, and the had a hard day yesterday; he must rest to-day.”
 
“It’s simply because you don’t want me to come. It’s always the same, day after day. You invent anything to get rid of me.”
 
She burst into tears, knowing that what she said was unjust, but feeling notwithstanding extremely ill-used. Edward smiled with irritating good temper.
 
“You’ll be sorry for what you’ve said when you’ve calmed down, and then you’ll want me to forgive you.”
 
She looked up, flushing. “You think I’m a child and a fool.”
 
“No, I just think you’re out of sorts to-day.”
 
Then he went out, whistling, and she heard him give an order to the gardener in his usual manner, as cheerful as if nothing had happened. Bertha knew that he had already forgotten the little scene. Nothing his good humour. She might weep, she might tear her heart out (metaphorically), and bang it on the floor, Edward would not be ; he would still be , good-tempered, forbearing. Hard words, he said, broke nobody’s bones—“Women are like chickens, when they cluck and cackle sit tight and take no notice!”
 
On his return Edward appeared not to see that his wife was out of temper. His spirits were always equable, and he was an unobservant person. She answered him in mono-syllables, but he away, delighted at having driven a good bargain with a man in Blackstable. Bertha longed for him to remark upon her condition so that she might burst out with reproaches, but Edward was hopelessly dense—or else he saw and was to give her an opportunity to speak. Bertha, almost for the first time, was seriously angry with her husband and it frightened her—suddenly Edward seemed an enemy, and she wished to some hurt upon him. She did not understand herself—what was going to happen next? Why wouldn’t he say something so that she might pour her and then be reconciled! The day wore on and she preserved a silence; her heart was beginning to ache terribly—the night came, and still Edward made no sign; she looked about for a chance of beginning the quarrel, but nothing offered. Bertha pretended to go to sleep and she did not give him the kiss, the never-ending kiss of lovers which they always exchanged. Surely he would notice it, surely he would ask what troubled her, and then she could at last bring him to his knees. But he said nothing; he was dog-tired after a hard day’s work, and without a word went to sleep—in five minutes Bertha heard his heavy, regular breathing.
 
Then she broke down; she could never sleep without saying good-night to him, without the kiss of his lips.
 
“He’s stronger than I,” she said, “because he doesn’t love me.”
 
Ber............