The hours had seemed
fuller and longer, sleep better earned--wonderful, the things one could
do without when put to it! He turned the car into the high road, driving
dreamily for he was in plenty of time. The war was going pretty well
now; he was no fool optimist, but now that conscription was in force,
one might reasonably hope for its end within a year. Then there would be
a boom, and one might let oneself go a little. Visions of theatres and
supper with his wife at the Savoy afterwards, and cosy night drives
back into the sweet-smelling country behind your own chauffeur once
more teased a fancy which even now did not soar beyond the confines of
domestic pleasures. He pictured his wife in new dresses by Jay--she
was fifteen years younger than himself, and "paid for dressing" as they
said. He had always delighted--as men older than their wives will--in
the admiration she excited from others not privileged to enjoy her
charms. Her rather queer and ironical beauty, her cool irreproachable
wifeliness, was a constant balm to him. They would give dinner parties
again, have their friends down from town, and he would once more enjoy
sitting at the foot of the dinner table while Kathleen sat at the head,
with the light soft on her ivory shoulders, behind flowers she had
arranged in that original way of hers, and fruit which he had grown in
his hot-houses; once more he would take legitimate interest in the wine
he offered to his guests--once more stock that Chinese cabinet wherein
he kept cigars.
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