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He even
concealed the fact that he pulled his telephone plug, by sticking it
back again every night just before he left.
He tried to laugh that guilty feeling out of existence. But he couldn't.
He knew too well whence it sprang. He knew whom he was stealing that
hour from. It wasn't the world in general he intrenched himself against.
It was his wife. The real purpose of that sixty minutes was to enable
him to stop thinking and feeling about her.
It was not that she had faded for him--become less the poignant, vivid,
irresistible thing he had first fallen in love with. Rather the
contrary. The simple rapture of desire that had characterized the period
of their engagement and the first months of their marriage, had lost
something--not so much, either--of its tension. But it had
broadened--deepened into something more compelling, more
pervasive--more, in his present mood, formidable.
She hadn't seemed quite well, lately, nor altogether happy, and he had
not been able to find out why.


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