And yet, whenever he did so, he felt a pain
in his heart, an irritating, cruel pain, a remorseless pain that could
never die.
"Everything on earth withers and dies," he mused, "why should her
favourite song alone be an exception to this? When one has heard it
three hundred and sixty-five times, it becomes stale; it can't be
helped. But is my wife right when she says that our love, also, has
died? No, and yet--perhaps she is. Our marriage is no better than a
vulgar liaison, for we have no child."
One day he made up his mind to talk the matter over with a married
friend, for were they not both members of the "Order of the Married"?
"How long have you been married?"
"Six years."
"And does matrimony bore you?"
"At first it did; but when the children came, matters improved."
"Was that so? It's strange that we have no child."
"Not your fault, old man! Tell your wife to go and see a doctor about
it."
He had an intimate conversation with her and she went.
Six weeks after what a change!
What a bustle and commotion in the house! The drawing-room table was
littered with baby-clothes which were quickly hidden if anybody entered
unexpectedly, and reappeared as quickly if it was only he who had come
in.
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