IV
David was reading the letter. Once he screwed it up into a ball and thrust it away from him. Then,
reaching for it, he smoothed it out and read it again.
Quietly, without saying anything, his wife, Hilda, watched him. She noted¹ the jerking muscle
(or was it a nerve?) in his temple, the slight tremor² of the long delicate hands, the nervous
spasmodic movements of his whole body. When he pushed aside the lock of fair hair that always
tended to stray down over his forehead and looked across at her with appealing blue eyes she was
ready.
“Hilda, what shall we do about it?”
Hilda hesitated a minute before speaking. She had heard the appeal in his voice. She knew
how dependent he was upon her—had always been ever since their marriage—knew that she
could probably influence his decision finally and decisively. But for just that reason she was chary³
of pronouncing anything too final.
She said, and her voice had the calm, soothing⁴ quality that can be heard in the voice of an
experienced nannie in a nursery:
“It depends on how you feel about it, David.”
A broad woman, Hilda, not beautiful, but with a certain magnetic quality. Something about
her like a Dutch picture. Something warming and endearing in the sound of her voice. Something
strong about her—the vital hidden strength that appeals to weakness. An overstout dumpy middle-
aged⁵ woman—not clever—not brilliant—but with something about her that you couldn’t pass
over. Force! Hilda Lee had force!
David got up and began pacing up and down. His hair was practically untouched by grey. He
was strangely boyish-looking. His face had the mild quality of a Burne Jones knight⁶. It was,
somehow, not very real. . . .
He said, and his voice was wistful:
“You know how I feel about it, Hilda. You must.”
“I’m not sure.”
“But I’ve told you—I’ve told you again and again! How I hate it all—the house and the

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