Killing her!  He flushed with anger, with indignation, with innocence, with guilt—­with Heaven knew what!

“—­it is so. You’ve been living your life.  But what about me?  In five more years I shall be old, and I haven’t begun to live.  I can’t stand it any longer.  I can’t stand this awful Five Towns district—­”

Had he not urged her many a time to run up to South Audley Street for a change, and leave him to continue his work?  Nobody wanted her to be always in Staffordshire!

“—­and I can’t stand you.  That’s the brutal truth.  You’ve got on my nerves, my poor boy, with your hurry, and your philanthropy, and your commerce, and your seriousness.  My poor nerves!  And you’ve been too busy to notice it.  You fancied I should be content if you made love to me absent-mindedly, en passant, between a political dinner and a bishop’s breakfast.”

He flinched.  She had stung him.

“I sting you—­”

No!  And he straightened himself, biting his lips!

“—­I sting you!  I’m rude!  I’m inexcusable!  People don’t say these things, not even hysterical wives to impeccable husbands, eh?  I admit it.  But I was bound to tell you.  You’re a serious person, Cloud, and I’m not.  Still, we were both born as we are, and I’ve just as much right to be unserious as you have to be serious.  That’s what you’ve never realized.  You aren’t better than me; you’re only different from me.  It is unfortunate that there are some aspects of the truth that you are incapable of grasping.  However, after this morning’s scene—­”

Scene?  What scene?  He remembered no scene, except that he had asked her not to interrupt him while he was reading his letters, had asked her quite politely, and she had left the breakfast-table.  He thought she had left because she had finished.  He hadn’t a notion—­what nonsense!

“—­this morning’s scene, I decided not to ‘interrupt’ you any more—­”

Yes.  There was the word he had used—­how childish she was!

“—­any more in the contemplation of those aspects of the truth which you are capable of grasping.  Good-bye!  You’re an honest man, and a straight man, and very conscientious, and very clever, and I expect you’re doing a lot of good in the world.  But your responsibilities are too much for you.  I relieve you of one, quite a minor one—­your wife.  You don’t want a wife.  What you want is a doll that you can wind up once a fortnight to say ‘Good-morning, dear,’ and ‘Good-night, dear.’  I think I can manage without a husband for a very long time.  I’m not so bitter as you might guess from this letter, Cloud.  But I want you thoroughly to comprehend that it’s finished between us.  You can do what you like.  People can say what they like.  I’ve had enough.  I’ll pay any price for freedom.  Good luck.  Best wishes.  I would write this letter afresh if I thought I could do a better one.—­Yours sincerely, Gertrude.”