presents and treats and surprises; she even developed a certain jealousy in him.  His work began to suffer from interruptions.  Yet they had glowing and entertaining moments together that could temper his rebellious thoughts with the threat of irreparable loss.  “One must love, and all things in life are imperfect,” was how Mr. Britling expressed his reasons for submission.  And she had a hold upon him too in a certain facile pitifulness.  She was little; she could be stung sometimes by the slightest touch and then her blue eyes would be bright with tears.

Those possible tears could weigh at times even more than those possible lost embraces.

And there was Oliver.

Oliver was a person Mr. Britling had never seen.  He grew into the scheme of things by insensible gradations.  He was a government official in London; he was, she said, extraordinarily dull, he was lacking altogether in Mr. Britling’s charm and interest, but he was faithful and tender and true.  And considerably younger than Mr. Britling.  He asked nothing but to love.  He offered honourable marriage.  And when one’s heart was swelling unendurably one could weep in safety on his patient shoulder.  This patient shoulder of Oliver’s ultimately became Mr. Britling’s most exasperating rival.

She liked to vex him with Oliver.  She liked to vex him generally.  Indeed in this by no means abnormal love affair, there was a very strong antagonism.  She seemed to resent the attraction Mr. Britling had for her and the emotions and pleasure she had with him.  She seemed under the sway of an instinctive desire to make him play heavily for her, in time, in emotion, in self-respect.  It was intolerable to her that he could take her easily and happily.  That would be taking her cheaply.  She valued his gifts by the bother they cost him, and was determined that the path of true love should not, if she could help it, run smooth.  Mr. Britling on the other hand was of the school of polite and happy lovers.  He thought it outrageous to dispute and contradict, and he thought that making love was a cheerful, comfortable thing to be done in a state of high good humour and intense mutual appreciation.  This levity offended the lady’s pride.  She drew unfavourable contrasts with Oliver.  If Oliver lacked charm he certainly did not lack emotion.  He desired sacrifice, it seemed, almost more than satisfactions.  Oliver was a person of the most exemplary miserableness; he would weep copiously and frequently.  She could always make him weep when she wanted to do so.  By holding out hopes and then dashing them if by no other expedient.  Why did Mr. Britling never weep?  She wept.

Some base streak of competitiveness in Mr. Britling’s nature made it seem impossible that he should relinquish the lady to Oliver.  Besides, then, what would he do with his dull days, his afternoons, his need for a properly demonstrated affection?