arn that Fanny was a
cleverer economist than I, with all my grim learning in South
Tottenham. The few pounds I was able to give her on the eve of our
marriage had been made to work miracles I thought. But lately it had
seemed a little different. Fanny had, of course, changed in many small
ways; and one result, as I gathered, was that our sovereigns had
become less powerful. Their purchasing power was notably reduced, it
seemed. Fortunately, I was earning more. But it was clear the increase
in my earnings would not as yet permit of any increase in our
expenditure upon rent. Sometimes in the Cimmerian intervals
immediately preceding one of our fresh starts, my reflections upon
such a point were very bitter. There was no sort of doubt that the
quality of my work was suffering seriously from lack of a private
workshop....

On the day my second book was published--the first, while favourably
reviewed, had not precisely taken the world by storm; its successor
was my first novel--I had said that I should not get back to our rooms
before about seven o'clock, in time for the evening meal. A dizzy
headache, combined with a series of interruptions in the public
reading-room where I had been at work, brought me to Camden Town
between four and five, determined to take a couple of hours' rest, to
sleep if possible on our bed. It happened that I met our landlady on
the steps of the house, and asked her casually if my wife had returned
yet. Fanny had said in the morning that she had promised to go and see
her mother that day. The landlady looked at me a little oddly, I
thought. Her reply was normal, and, characteristically enough, more
wordy than informing:

'Oh, I couldn't sye, Mr. Fr'ydon; I reely couldn't sye. I know Mrs.
Fr'ydon went art early this mornin', because she 'appened to speak to
me in passin', an' she said she was goin' to see 'er mother, "Oh, are
yer?" I says. "An' I 'ope you'll find 'er well," I says.'

I passed on indoors and upstairs, thinking dizzily about Cockney
dialect--I had the worst kind of dyspeptic headache--and feeling
rather glad my wife was away. 'An hour's sleep will set me right,' I
muttered to myself as I entered our tiny bedroom.

But Fanny was lying on the bed, fully dressed, even to her hat, and
with muddy boots. She was maundering over to herself the silly words
of some inane song of the day. She was horribly flushed, and-- But let
me make an end of it. My wife was grossly and quite unmistakab