seemed to creep into their relations. A blight settled on the home.

Little by little Minnie and he were growing almost formal towards each
other. She had lost her taste for being read to in the evenings and had
developed a habit of pleading a headache and going early to bed.
Sometimes, catching her eye when she was not expecting it, he surprised
an enigmatic look in it. It was a look, however, which he was able to
read. It meant that she was bored.

It might have been expected that this state of affairs would have
distressed Henry. It gave him, on the contrary, a pleasurable thrill.
It made him feel that it had been worth it, going through the torments
of learning to dance. The more bored she was now the greater her
delight when he revealed himself dramatically. If she had been
contented with the life which he could offer her as a non-dancer, what
was the sense of losing weight and money in order to learn the steps?
He enjoyed the silent, uneasy evenings which had supplanted those
cheery ones of the first year of their marriage. The more uncomfortable
they were now, the more they would appreciate their happiness later on.
Henry belonged to the large circle of human beings who consider that
there is acuter pleasure in being suddenly cured of toothache than in
never having toothache at all.

He merely chuckled inwardly, therefore, when, on the morning of her
birthday, having presented her with a purse which he knew she had long
coveted, he found himself thanked in a perfunctory and mechanical way.

'I'm glad you like it,' he said.

Minnie looked at the purse without enthusiasm.