u might put your head on his shoulder, and say: "It was every
bit your fault, and the rest was mine. Kiss me! and we'll never do it
again!" and he'd choose the prettiest dimple, and kiss you there, and do
it so nicely, you'd long to quarrel again. Oh, yes, there are points
about quarrelling, but it's so hopelessly uningratiating to be--bored.
The worse you feel, the less you can say. Imagine telling a man that he
bored you to extinction, and expecting to be kissed in return! Being
bored goes on and on, and never works itself off'... Bernard is good
and loyal, and honourable, and just,--and I'm _so_ tired of him. I
_am_; and I can't pretend any longer. We've lived together in peace and
boredom for ten long years, and something within me seems wearing out--

"I wonder how many married people come up against this hurdle? Its name
is satiety, and it is bristling with difficulties. I've a suspicion
that if one could get cleanly over, it would be a safe trot home. But
it blocks the way. I'm up against it now--"

Cassandra rested an elbow on the arm of her chair, and leant her head on
the uplifted hand. A thrill of something like fear ran through her
veins. The simile of the hurdle had leapt into her mind subconsciously,
as such things will, but the conscious mind recognised its face. Along
the quiet path lay no chance for the reforming of life; it must
necessarily be some shock, some upheaval, which would either open out
new fields, or gild the old with some of the vanished splendour. Even
if one failed to reach the goal without a toss, a toss was preferable to
an eternal jog-trot.

Cassandra narrowed her eyes, and stared into space, but no man's face
pictured itself in her mind; for ten long years Bernard had, for good or
ill, filled the foreground of her life, not the mildest of flirtations
had been hers. She was a pure-minded woman, bred on conventional lines,
and the idea of a lover would have outraged her delicacy. In
considering the events which might possibly vitalise the future, her
mind dwelt on strictly legitimate happenings. A serious illness,--her
own,--Bernard's,--the boy's; the loss of money; a lengthened separation,
which would revive joys staled by custom. Regarded dispassionately the
prospects were not cheerful, nevertheless she found herself cheered by
the contemplation. She saw herself occupied, engrossed, with something
to do, a real object in life. It might be a reviving experience t