The theme of compatibility in marriage was something she had been thinking about a lot, and she had recently completed a novel on the subject: Instead of the Thorn, which would be published just three months after “Whose Fault Was It?”. Like the short, the book is about marriage and about the things that can go wrong between two people who don’t really understand one another. Though the novel is far more serious in tone, both demonstrate the unmarried Heyer’s interest and insight into marriage.

She had been observant from a young age and even her earliest writing shows how perceptive she could be about relationships and love. In this period Heyer was close to Joanna Cannan, who was married to Harold Pullein-Thompson. It was with Joanna that Heyer had often talked about the realities of wedded life and Instead of the Thorn is dedicated to her for having “discussed the fortunes of Elizabeth Arden not once but many times,” and for “good counsel” and “sympathy in moments of depression.” It is likely that the short story grew out of the novel, though it is considerably more humorous and much more lightly drawn than the longer work.

WHOSE FAULT WAS IT?

THE eggs were hard-boiled, and there were no fewer than three printer’s errors in George’s article on Porcelain of the Yuan Dynasty. He looked up from the paper with a glowering brow and addressed his wife in a voice of icy politeness.

“I believe I asked you once before to speak to the cook about the boiling of eggs,” he said.

Diana had slept badly and had awakened with a headache. She answered every mite as coolly, and without raising her eyes from her morning’s correspondence.

“I daresay you did.”

George’s frown grew darker. One of the printer’s errors destroyed the whole meaning of his paragraph.

“I should have thought that it was your business to keep an eye on the cook,” he said with heavy sarcasm.

“I can’t be forever nagging at her,” Diana replied. “You complain about something or other every meal.”

“That,” said George, “is hardly my fault.”

“It certainly isn’t mine.”

“Indeed! I suppose you’ll say next that the management of the house is not your affair?”

“I’ll say something more to the point,” his wife answered, looking up at last. “I didn’t marry you with the idea of being your housekeeper! I’m fed up with it!”

“I consider that a most unjust and uncalled-for speech!” said George sharply.

“Oh, do you? It’s been perfectly evident to me ever since we came back from our honeymoon that you didn’t want a wife at all, but a housekeeper. You don't care for anything except your beastly old china!”

“You’re talking like a hysterical child. If you would take a little more interest in my china, and a little less in this everlasting dancing, and—”

“Thank you! I’m to sink my own tastes and inclinations, am I? It may interest you to know that if you were less absorbed in Chinese porcelain, or whatever it is, and thought more about what I like to do—”