"Really," grumbled Peter to himself one evening, sawing at a mutton
chop, "really there's no other word for it--I'm henpecked."

Peter that day had looked forward to a little dinner at a favourite
restaurant, with his "dear old friend Blenkinsopp, a bit of a
gourmet, Tommy--that means a man who likes what you would call
elaborate cooking!"--forgetful at the moment that he had used up
"Blenkinsopp" three days before for a farewell supper,
"Blenkinsopp" having to set out the next morning for Egypt. Peter
was not facile at invention. Names in particular had always been a
difficulty to him.

"I like a spirit of independence," continued Peter to himself.
"Wish she hadn't quite so much of it. Wonder where she got it
from."

The situation was becoming more serious to Peter than he cared to
admit. For day by day, in spite of her tyrannies, Tommy was
growing more and more indispensable to Peter. Tommy was the first
audience that for thirty years had laughed at Peter's jokes; Tommy
was the first public that for thirty years had been convinced that
Peter was the most brilliant journalist in Fleet Street; Tommy was
the first anxiety that for thirty years had rendered it needful
that Peter each night should mount stealthily the creaking stairs,
steal with shaded candle to a bedside. If only Tommy wouldn't "do"
for him! If only she could be persuaded to "do" something else.

Another happy thought occurred to Peter.

"Tommy--I mean Jane," said Peter, "I know what I'll do with you."