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Chapter 7

           Butthenagain,itwastheotherthingtoo—notbeingabletotellhimthetruth,beingafraid,forinstance,aboutthegreenhouseroofandtheexpenseitwouldbe,fiftypoundsperhapstomendit;andthenabouthisbooks,tobeafraidthathemightguess,whatshealittlesuspected,thathislastbookwasnotquitehisbestbook(shegatheredthatfromWilliamBankes);andthentohidesmalldailythings,andthechildrenseeingit,andtheburdenitlaidonthem—allthisdiminishedtheentirejoy,thepurejoy,ofthetwonotessoundingtogether,andletthesounddieonherearnowwithadismalflatness.

           Ashadowwasonthepage;shelookedup.ItwasAugustusCarmichaelshufflingpast,preciselynow,attheverymomentwhenitwaspainfultoberemindedoftheinadequacyofhumanrelationships,thatthemostperfectwasflawed,andcouldnotbeartheexaminationwhich,lovingherhusband,withherinstinctfortruth,sheturneduponit;whenitwaspainfultofeelherselfconvictedofunworthiness,andimpededinherproperfunctionbytheselies,theseexaggerations—itwasatthismomentwhenshewasfrettedthusignoblyinthewakeofherexaltation,thatMr.Carmichaelshuffledpast,inhisyellowslippers,andsomedemoninhermadeitnecessaryforhertocallout,ashepassed,

           "GoingindoorsMr.Carmichael?"

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