Sheila, calm, alert, reserved, was sitting at the open window
when he awoke again. His breakfast tray stood on a little table
beside the bed. He raised himself on his elbow and looked at his
wife. The morning light shone full on her features as she turned
quickly at sound of his stirring.

'You have slept late,' she said, in a low, mellow voice.

'Have I, Sheila? I suppose I was tired out. It is very kind of
you to have got everything ready like this.'

'I am afraid, Arthur, I was thinking rather of the maids. I like
to inconvenience them as little as possible; in their usual
routine, I mean. How are you feeling, do you think, this
morning?'

'I--I haven't seen the glass, Sheila.'

She paused to place a little pencil tick at the foot of the page
of her butcher's book. 'And did you--did you try?'

'Did I try? Try what?'

'I understood,' she said, turning slowly in her chair, 'you gave
me to understand that you went out with the specific intention of
trying to regain.... But there, forgive me, Arthur; I think I
must be getting a little bit hardened to the position, so far at
least as any hope is in my mind of rather amateurish experiments
being of much help. I may seem unsympathetic in saying frankly
what I feel. But amateurish or no, you are curiously erratic.