very quietly and decidedly, but almost in a whisper, “I shall never again write novels!” As her husband made no reply, she again repeated the remark. Then tears came to her eyes, and she began to weep. Her husband reproved her a little for her childishness, but still her sobs came from the stillness of the further room. At last he went to her, and soon she found herself clinging to him.
The next day they were again the same happy and contented couple as before.
There were some evenings when her husband did not come home from his office until shortly after midnight. When he eventually did return, he was so drunk that he could not take off his overcoat without some assistance from his wife. Naturally she was annoyed with him, but she endeavoured to be as kind as possible, and would help him to remove his clothes. Often when he was fuddled with drink he would say very unkind things to her, such as, “If I had not come home at all this evening you would have made better progress with your novel!” He often made this remark, and there was something quite feminine in his tone of voice when he spoke. When she got into bed after these unhappy episodes, the tears would roll down her cheeks. She often thought how sorry her sister would have felt to witness such scenes, and she knew how she would sympathise with her at such times. She often felt the need of talking to her younger sister, and her heart would often utter these silent words, “Oh, Teru-ko! Teru-ko! You are the only woman in the
