Emerging from the Tube station at Hampstead, he moved toward home under a sky stranger than one might see in a whole year of evenings.  Between the pine-trees on the ridge it was opaque and colored like pinkish stone, and all around violent purple with flames of the young green, and white spring blossom lit against it.  Spring had been dull and unimaginative so far, but this evening it was all fire and gathered torrents; Felix wondered at the waiting passion of that sky.

He reached home just as those torrents began to fall.

The old house, beyond the Spaniard’s Road, save for mice and a faint underlying savor of wood-rot in two rooms, well satisfied the aesthetic sense.  Felix often stood in his hall, study, bedroom, and other apartments, admiring the rich and simple glow of them—­admiring the rarity and look of studied negligence about the stuffs, the flowers, the books, the furniture, the china; and then quite suddenly the feeling would sweep over him:  “By George, do I really own all this, when my ideal is ’bread and water, and on feast days a little bit of cheese’?” True, he was not to blame for the niceness of his things—­Flora did it; but still—­there they were, a little hard to swallow for an epicurean.  It might, of course, have been worse, for if Flora had a passion for collecting, it was a very chaste one, and though what she collected cost no little money, it always looked as if it had been inherited, and—­as everybody knows—­what has been inherited must be put up with, whether it be a coronet or a cruet-stand.

To collect old things, and write poetry!  It was a career; one would not have one’s wife otherwise.  She might, for instance, have been like Stanley’s wife, Clara, whose career was wealth and station; or John’s wife, Anne, whose career had been cut short; or even Tod’s wife, Kirsteen, whose career was revolution.  No—­a wife who had two, and only two children, and treated them with affectionate surprise, who was never out of temper, never in a hurry, knew the points of a book or play, could cut your hair at a pinch; whose hand was dry, figure still good, verse tolerable, and—­above all—­who wished for no better fate than Fate had given her—­was a wife not to be sneezed at.  And Felix never had.  He had depicted so many sneezing wives and husbands in his books, and knew the value of a happy marriage better perhaps than any one in England.  He had laid marriage low a dozen times, wrecked it on all sorts of rocks, and had the greater veneration for his own, which had begun early, manifested every symptom of ending late, and in the meantime walked down the years holding hands fast, and by no means forgetting to touch lips.

Hanging up the gray top hat, he went in search of her.  He found her in his dressing-room, surrounded by a number of little bottles, which she was examining vaguely, and putting one by one into an ‘inherited’ waste-paper basket.  Having watched her for a little while with a certain pleasure, he said: