‘Yes—­er—­please,’ I murmured.  Under her searching gaze my knees trembled, my pulses throbbed, a slight perspiration broke out on my forehead.  My whole being seemed to centre itself in the mute inquiry:  ‘Shall I suit?’

There was a pause while the applicant placed her heavy guns.  Then she opened fire immediately.  ‘I suppose you have outside daily help?’

‘Er—­no,’ I confessed.

‘Then you have a boy to do the windows, knives and boots?’

‘No.’

‘Do you send everything to the laundry?’

‘Well . . . no . . . not quite.’  I wanted to explain, to modify, to speak airily of woollens being ‘just rubbed through,’ but she hurried me forward.

‘Have you a hot water circulator?’

‘No.’

‘A gas cooking-range?’

‘No.’

It was terrible.  I seemed to have nothing.  I stood, as it were, naked to the world, bereft of a single inducement to hold out to the girl.

‘Do you dine late?’

At this point, when I longed to answer ‘No,’ I was compelled to say
‘Yes.’  That decided her.  She rose at once and moved towards the door. 
‘I’m afraid your situation won’t do for me,’ she remarked.

That was all she said.  She was perfectly dignified about it.  Much as she obviously condemned me, there was no noisy recrimination, no violent vituperative outburst on her part.  I followed in her wake to the door.  Even at the eleventh hour I hoped for a respite.  ’Couldn’t something be arranged?’ I faltered as my gaze wandered hungrily over her capable-looking form.  ’We might get you a gas-cooker—­and all that.’

Do not condemn me.  Remember that my will had been weakened by housework; six months of doing my own washing-up had brought me to my knees.  I was ready to agree to any terms that were offered me.  The applicant shook her head.  There were too many obstacles in the way, too many radical changes necessary before the place could be made suitable for her.  I realized finality in her answer, ‘No, nothink,’ and closing the front door behind her, I returned to the study to brood.  I was still there, thinking bitterly, the shadows of the evening creeping around me, when Henry came in.

‘Hallo,’ he said gruffly.  ’No signs of dinner yet?  Do you know the time?’

And only six months ago (before this story opens) he would have embraced me tenderly when he came in and said, ’How is the little wifie-pifie to-night?  I hope it hasn’t been worrying its fluffy little head with writing and making its hubby-wubby anxious?’

Perhaps you prefer Henry in the former role.  Frankly, I did not.  ’You needn’t be so impatient,’ I retorted.  ’I expect you’ve gorged yourself on a good lunch in town.  Anyhow, it won’t take long to get dinner, as we’re having tinned soup and eggs.’

‘Oh, damn eggs,’ said Henry.  ’I’m sick of the sight of ’em.’

You can see for yourself how unrestrained we were getting.  The thin veneer of civilization (thinner than ever when Henry is hungry) was fast wearing into holes.  There was a pause, and then I coldly remarked:  ‘You didn’t kiss me when you came in.’