Rutherford thinks that Mr. Cardew was chiefly to blame, and his
verdict is probably just. A man takes a considerably longer stride
than a woman; but, for all that, it is still possible, even in these
days of hobble skirts, for man and maid to walk in step, as all true
lovers know. But it can only be managed by his moderating his ungainly
stride to her more modest one, and, perhaps, by her unconsciously
lengthening her step under the invigorating influence of his support.
Which is a parable. Mark Rutherford says that 'Mr. Cardew had not
learned the art of being happy with his wife; he did not know that
happiness is an art; he rather did everything he could do to make the
relationship intolerable. He demanded payment in coin stamped from his
own mint, and if bullion and jewels had been poured before him he would
have taken no heed of them. He did not take into account that what his
wife said and what she felt might not be the same; that persons who
have no great command over language are obliged to make one word do
duty for a dozen; and that, if his wife was defective at one point,
there were in her whole regions of unexplored excellence, of faculties
never encouraged, and an affection to which he offered no response.'
There is more philosophy in the cunning way in which those happy lovers
in the lane accommodate their strides to the comfort of each other than
we have been accustomed to suspect. It is done very easily; it is done
almost unconsciously; but they must be very careful to go on doing it
long after they have left the leafy old lane behind them.

IV

I do not mean to suggest that husbands and wives are sinners above all
people on the face of the earth. By no means. Is there a club, a
society, an office, or a church in the wide, wide world that does not
shelter a most excellent individual whose one and only fault is that he
cannot get on with anybody else? That is, of course, my way of putting
it. It is not his. He would say that nobody else can get on with him.
Which again takes our minds back to the troops. A raw Scotch lad
joined the expeditionary force, and on the first parade day his mother
and sister came proudly down to see him march. Jock, sad to say, was
out of step. At least that is my way of putting it. But it is not the
only way. 'Look, mother!' said his fond sister, 'look, they're a' oot
o' step but our Jock!' It is not for me to decide whether Jock is
right or whether the others