whether it wasn’t going to be a grand place for Dinkie to slide down. And when Dinkie draws a goggle-eyed man on his scribbler you see Michael Angelo totter and Titian turn in his grave. And when Dinkie writes a composition of thirty crooked lines on the landing of Hengist you feel that fate did Hume a mean trick in letting him pass away before inspecting that final word in historical record. And heaven’s just a row of Dinkies with little gold harps tucked under their wings. And you think you’re breathing air, but all you’re breathing is Dinkies, millions and millions of etherealized Dinkies. And when you read about the famine in China you inevitably and adroitly hitch the death of seven thousand Chinks in Yangchow on to the 28 interests of your immortal offspring. And I suppose Rome really came into being for the one ultimate end that an immortal young Dinkie might possess his full degree of Dinkiness and the glory that was Greece must have been merely the tom-toms tuning up for the finished dance of our Dinkie’s grandeur. Day and night, it’s Dinkie, just Dinkie!”

I waited until he was through. I waited, heavy of heart, until his foolish fires of revolt had burned themselves out. And it didn’t seem to add to his satisfaction to find that I could inspect him with a quiet and slightly commiserative eye.

“You are accusing me,” I finally told him, “of something I’m proud of. And I’m afraid I’ll always be guilty of caring for my own son.”

He turned on me with a sort of heavy triumph.

“Well, it’s something that you’ll jolly well pay the piper for, some day,” he announced.

“What do you mean by that?” I demanded.

“I mean that nothing much is ever gained by letting the maternal instinct run over. And that’s exactly what you’re doing. You’re trying to tie Dinkie to your side, when you can no more tie him up than you can tie up a sunbeam. You could keep him close enough to you, of course, when he was small. 29 But he’s bound to grow away from you as he gets bigger, just as I grew away from my mother and you once grew away from yours. It’s a natural law, and there’s no use crocking your knees on it. The boy’s got his own life to live, and you can’t live it for him. It won’t be long, now, before you begin to notice those quiet withdrawals, those slippings-back into his own shell of self-interest. And unless you realize what it means, it’s going to hurt. And unless you reckon on that in the way you order your life you’re not only going to be a very lonely old lady but you’re going to bump into a big hole where you thought the going was smoothest!”

I sat thinking this over, with a ton of lead where my heart should have been.

“I’ve already bumped into a big hole where I thought the going was smoothest,” I finally observed.

My husband looked at me and then looked away again.

“I was hoping we could fill that up and forget it,” he ventured in a valorously timid tone which made it hard, for reasons I couldn’t quite fathom, to keep my throat from tightening. But I sat there, shaking my head from side to side. 30

“I’ve got to love something,” I found myself protesting. “And the children seem all that is left.”

“How about me?” asked my husband, with his acidulated and slightly one-sided smile.

“You’ve changed, Dinky-Dunk,” was all I could say.

“But some day,” he contended, “you may wake up to the fact that I’m still a human being.”

“I’ve wakened up to the fact that you’re a different sort of human being than I had thought.”

“Oh, we’re all very much alike, once you get our number,” asserted my husband.

“You mean men are,” I amended.

“I mean that if men can’t get a little warmth and color and sympathy in the home-circle they’re going to edge about until they find a substitute for it, no matter how shoddy it may be,” contended Dinky-Dunk.

“But isn’t that a hard and bitter way of writing life down to one’s own level?” I asked, trying to swallow the choke that wouldn’t stay down in my throat.

“Well, I can’t see that we get much ahead by trying to sentimentalize the situation,” he said, with a gesture that seemed one of frustration. 31

We sat staring at each other, and again I had the feeling of abysmal gulfs of space intervening between us.

“Is that all you can say about it?” I asked, with a foolish little gulp I couldn’t control.

“Isn’t it enough?” demanded Dinky-Dunk. And I knew that nothing was to be gained, that night, by the foolish and futile clash of words.

I’ve been doing a good deal of thinking over what Dinky-Dunk said. I have been trying to see things from his standpoint. By a sort of mental ju-jutsu I’ve even been trying to justify what I can’t quite understand in him. But it’s no use. There’s one bald, hard fact I can’t escape, no matter how I dig my old ostrich-beak of instinct under the sands of self-deception. There’s one cold-blooded truth that will have to be faced. My husband is no longer in love with me. Whatever else may have happened, I have lost my heart-hold on Duncan Argyll McKail. I am still his wife, in the eyes of the law, and the mother of his children. We still live together, and, from force of habit, if from nothing else, go through the familiar old rites of daily communion. He sits across the table from me when I eat, and talks casually enough of the trivially momentous problems of the minute, or he reads in his slippers before the fire while I do my sewing within a spool-toss of him. But a row of invisible assegais stand leveled between his 33 heart and mine. A slow glacier of green-iced indifferency shoulders in between us; and gone forever is the wild-flower aroma of youth, the singing spirit of April, the mysterious light that touched our world with wonder. He is merely a man, drawing on to middle age, and I am a woman, no longer young. Gone now are the spring floods that once swept us together. Gone now is the flame of adoration that burned clean our altar of daily intercourse and left us blind to the weaknesses we were too happy to remember. For there was a time when we loved each other. I know that as well as Duncan does. But it died away, that ghostly flame. It went out like a neglected fire. And blowing on dead ashes can never revive the old-time glow.

“So they were married and lived happy ever afterward!” That is the familiar ending to the fairy-tales I read over and over again to my Dinkie and Poppsy. But they are fairy-tales. For who lives happy ever afterward? First love chloroforms us, for a time, and we try to hug to our bosoms the illusion that Heaven itself is only a sort of endless honeymoon presided over by Lohengrin marches. But the anesthetic wears away and we find that life isn’t a bed of roses but a rough field that rewards us 34 as we till it, with here and there the cornflower of happiness laughing unexpectedly up at us out of our sober acres of sober wheat. And often enough we don’t know happiness when we see it. We assuredly find it least where we look for it most. I can’t even understand why we’re equipped with such a hunger for it. But I find myself trending more and more to that cynic philosophy which defines happiness as the absence of pain. The absence of pain—that is a lot to ask for, in this life!

I wonder if Dinky-Dunk is right in his implication that I am getting hard? There are times, I know, when I grate