“You wouldn’t. She thought of him as always courteous and helpful, as realizing, indeed, his ideal of protection and service, as chivalrously leaving her free to live her own life, rejoicing with an infinite generosity in every detail of her irresponsive being. He had not been successful as the world counted success; the fat bank-account, the filled waiting room of which he had once dreamed, had never materialized except in the smoke of his evening pipe. I suppose it depends on her own state of mind. After the sights he would have to twiddle his thumbs until the joints cracked. This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s. These two elderly ladies would call her stark mad.
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