If he had been on his own it wouldn’t have been so bad, but a wife makes a man conspicuous, especially if he doesn’t amount to much, and at this moment Hubert felt he amounted to nothing at all. Poor Rose, he didn’t blame her, but by her presence in his life she showed what he had tried to do and that he had hoped, and by her behavior she showed what his hopes had come to. He was ashamed of her. Without her, who knows what he might have done. And then again he might have gone through life invisible, but anything would have been better than being held up to ridicule in his own house. Anything in the world would have been better than being held up to ridicule to himself. He felt uncomfortable in his chair, and angry. It was not that she was demanding or extravagant. She asked for nothing. The reason he grew irritable when the time came to hand her the housekeeping money every week was that she always took it apologetically, and on the few occasions when he had forgotten it, reminded him timidly. Of course, he grew irritable once in a while with her pretenses, and no one knew how many times he restrained himself when she irritated him nearly beyond endurance. He could not stand the way she ate, or to know the amount of food she ate, which was a good deal more than he ever felt inclined to take. The word “appetite” embarrassed him, and the knowledge he had of her appetite, which was so much greater than his own, made her mysterious to him, but not in a way that aroused his interest or affection. He thought her appetite was something to be ashamed of, and he did not want to think about it. He did not grudge her the food, but he thought she attached too much importance to it. He dreaded to see her eat, because he could not keep his eyes off her, and there had been times when he saw her turn red and swallow quickly when she caught him watching her. He always had his breakfast by himself, and he had his dinner in town in the middle of the day, so there were only teatimes and Sunday dinners to be got through.