“My wife. Each manuscript was like the other: the same lovely treatment of an unlovely subject. Abruptly she got out of bed, smoothed her sheet and straightened her pillow and lay down, and fell almost instantly asleep. She made a slow tour of the front of the house without success, and then started back along the rooms behind, dragging open the drapes each time to get just enough light to recognise what was on the walls. There were all varieties of bird-life known in these latitudes, from the bird of paradise down to the tiny scarlet-beaked love-birds. He caught the smirk. Something happened down there, and probably I'll never know what. "How goes it?" he began, heartily. He has helped me out of scrapes though, no end of times. It was then, I am sure, empty. I thought then perhaps you didn’t care, that you were like so many of them.
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