If he
chops wood he gashes himself; he cannot go through the simple rite of
pouring boiling water out of a saucepan without getting scalded; and
when he mounts the steps to adjust the blinds I always keep the brandy
uncorked in readiness; you see, he declares that a chap needs something
to pull himself together after a fall from a step-ladder.
Perhaps you trace in all this a certain bitterness, a veiled antagonism
on my part towards Henry; you may even imagine that we are a bickering
sort of couple, constantly trying to get the better of each other. If
so, you are mistaken. Up to six months before this story opens our
married life had been ideal--for which reason I didn't open the story
earlier. Ideal marriages (to any one except the contracting parties)
are uninteresting affairs. It is such a pity that the good, the
laudable, things in life generally are.
One of the reasons why our union was ideal (up to six months before
this story opens) was that we shared identical tastes. Comradeship is
the true basis of--but perhaps you have read my articles on the subject
on the Woman's Page of the _Daily Trail_. I always advise girls to
marry men of their own temperament. As a matter of fact, I expect they
marry the men who are easiest to land, but you're not allowed to say
things like that (on the Woman's Page). We have pure and noble ideals,
we are tender, motherly and housewifely (on the Woman's Page).
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