"Are you a conundrum? Or a fiend? Or a metaphysical system? And if so,

why do you wear a pink frock! Are you a young woman who prefers a dead

poet to a living husband? Are you a young woman at all? Or only a dear

little, sweet little, pink little strawberry iceberg?"

He lay down on the sofa as if overcome by unutterable fatigue. "Just as

you like," he murmured faintly. "You'll be sorry for this some day.

Shakespeare is immortal. I, most unfortunately, am not."

He got up and threw the window open. He ramped about the room,

soliloquizing as he went. Never, even in the last days of their

engagement, had she seen him so restless. (But she was not going to speak

yet; not she!) He stopped before the chimney-piece; it was covered with

ridiculous objects, the things that please a child: there were Swiss

cow-bells and stags carved in wood, Chinese idols that wagged their

heads, little images of performing cats, teacups, a whole shelf full of

toys. Not one of them but had some minute fragment of his wife's

personality adhering to it. He remembered the insane impulse that came

upon him last year to smash them, sweep the lot of them on to the floor.

To-night he could have kissed them, cried over them. "T-t-t-tt! What

affecting absurdity!" That was the way he went on. And now he sat down

by her writing-table, and was taking things up and examining them while

he talked. He never, never forgot the expression of a certain brass

porcupine that was somehow a penwiper; it seemed to belong to a world

gone mad, where everything was something else, where porcupines were

penwipers, and his wife-For suddenly his tongue had stopped. He had caught sight of an enormous

bunch of hothouse flowers in a vase on the floor by the writing-table.

Stanistreet's card was in the midst of the bunch, and a note from

Stanistreet lay open on the writing-table.

There was an ominous pause while Tyson read it. It was curt enough; only

an offer of flowers and a ticket for the "Lyceum." Stanistreet's mind

must have been seriously off its balance, otherwise he would never have

done this clumsy thing.

Tyson strode to his wife's chair and tossed the letter into her lap.

"How long has Stanistreet been paying you these little attentions?"

She looked up smiling. I am not sure that she did not think this new tone

of Tyson's was part of the game they were playing together. She had never

taken him seriously.

"Ever since he found out that I liked them, I suppose."

"Did it not occur to you that the things you like are rather expensive

luxuries, some of them?"

"No. Perhaps that's why I hardly ever get them."




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