I

“I’m getting up, Teddilinks,” said Mrs Whiston, and she sprang out of bed briskly.

“What the Hanover’s got you?” asked Whiston.

“Nothing. Can’t I get up?” she replied animatedly¹.

It was about seven o’clock, scarcely light yet in the cold bedroom. Whiston lay still and looked at his wife. She was a pretty little thing, with her fleecy, short black hair all tousled . . . He watched her as she dressed quickly, flicking³ her small, delightful⁴ limbs, throwing her clothes about her. Her slovenliness⁵ and untidiness did not trouble him. When she picked up the edge of her petticoat, ripped off a torn string of white lace, and flung it on the dressing-table, her careless abandon made his spirit glow. She stood before the mirror and roughly scrambled⁶ together her profuse⁷ little mane of hair. He watched the quickness and softness of her young shoulders, calmly, like a husband, and appreciatively.

“Rise up,” she cried, turning to him with a quick wave of her arm — “and shine forth⁸.”

They had been married two years. But still, when she had gone out of the room, he felt as if all his light and warmth were taken away, he became aware of the raw, cold morning. So he rose himself, wondering casually¹⁰ what had roused her so early. Usually she lay in bed as late as she could.

Whiston fastened a belt round his loins and went downstairs in shirt and trousers. He heard her singing in her snatchy fashion. The stairs creaked under his weight. He passed down the narrow little passage, which she called a hall, of the seven and sixpenny house which was his first home.

He was a shapely young fellow of about twenty-eight, sleepy now and easy with

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