rty. It
made him frightened and furious and miserable. He was afraid all
would be lost that he had so newly come into: like the youth in
the fairy tale, who was king for one day in the year, and for
the rest a beaten herd: like Cinderella also, at the feast. He
was sullen. But she blithely began to make preparations for her
tea-party. His fear was too strong, he was troubled, he hated
her shallow anticipation and joy. Was she not forfeiting the
reality, the one reality, for all that was shallow and
worthless? Wasn't she carelessly taking off her crown to be an
artificial figure having other artificial women to tea: when she
might have been perfect with him, and kept him perfect, in the
land of intimate connection? Now he must be deposed, his joy
must be destroyed, he must put on the vulgar, shallow death of
an outward existence.

He ground his soul in uneasiness and fear. But she rose to a
real outburst of house-work, turning him away as she shoved the
furniture aside to her broom. He stood hanging miserable near.
He wanted her back. Dread, and desire for her to stay with him,
and shame at his own dependence on her drove him to anger. He
began to lose his head. The wonder was going to pass away again.
All the love, the magnificent new order was going to be lost,
she would forfeit it all for the outside things. She would admit
the outside world again, she would throw away the living fruit
for the ostensible rind. He began to hate this in her. Driven by
fear of her departure into a state of helplessness, almost of
imbecility, he wandered about the house.

And she, with her skirts kilted up, flew round at her work,
absorbed.

"Shake the rug then, if you must hang round," she said.

And fretting with resentment, he went to shake the rug. She
was blithely unconscious of him. He came back, hanging near to
her.

"Can't you do anything?" she said, as if to a child,
impatiently. "Can't you do your wood-work?"

"Where shall I do it?" he asked, harsh with pain.

"Anywhere."

How furious that made him.

"Or go for a walk," she continued. "Go down to the Marsh.
Don't hang about as if you were only half there."

He winced and hated it. He went away to read. Never had his
soul felt so flayed and uncreated.

And soon he must come down again to her. His hovering near
her, wanting her to be with him, the futility of him, the way
his hands hung, irritated her beyond bearing. She turned on him
blindly and destructively,