_Henry (gruffly)._ Hullo, no signs of dinner yet! Do you know the time?

_Me (snappily)._ You needn't be so impatient. I expect you've gorged
yourself on a good lunch in town. Anyhow it won't take long to get dinner,
as we are having tinned soup and eggs.

_Henry._ Oh, damn eggs. I'm sick of the sight of 'em.

You can see for yourself how unrestrained we were getting. The thin veneer
of civilisation (thinner than ever when Henry is hungry) was fast wearing
into holes.

The subsequent meal was eaten in silence. The hay-fever from which I am
prone to suffer at all seasons of the year was particularly persistent that
evening. A rising irritability engendered by leathery eggs and fostered by
Henry's face was taking possession of me. Quite suddenly I discovered that
the way he held his knife annoyed me. Further I was maddened by his manner
of taking soup. But I restrained myself. I merely remarked, "You have
finished your soup, I _hear_, love."

Henry, though feeling the strain, had not quite lost his fortitude. My
hay-fever was obviously annoying him, but he only commented, "Don't you
think you ought to see a doctor about that distressing nasal complaint, my
dear?" I knew, however, that he was longing to bark out, "Can't you stop
that everlasting sniffing? It's driving me mad, woman."

How long would it be before we reached that stage of candour? I was
brooding on this when the front-door bell rang.

"You go," I said to Henry.