He was still lighthearted that night when he came home. He let himself into the dim hall and hurried up the stairs without touching the banister, which creaked loudly in the silence of the night as it had done on the first day he and Delia walked into the house, when it was empty and full of hollow sounds. He was tired, and anxious for sleep. He was so sleepy that his mind was already sinking comfortably into the quiet, dark hours that waited for him. His thoughts floated drowsily ahead of him, drawing him into the room where he would rest, but when he opened the door and switched on the light he became wide awake. He looked at Delia’s flowers, and he felt betrayed and shocked, as though she had set a trap for him. Whether she spoke or not and whether she was in the room or not she still managed to reproach him. There was no escaping her. And there was no contending with her. There was no way to deal with her. He had come to believe that she really did not know why she did the things she did. He thought of her standing in the room, and putting the flowers on the desk, and looking around her and walking out again, closing the door behind her so that the animals could not get in and annoy him, and all the time imagining that she was being “good.” She never understood why she did anything, and she never admitted even to herself why she did anything. She didn’t know, that was the real trouble. Where the rest of the world was concerned, all she seemed able to understand was the necessity for obedience. She always did what she was told, and then she waited to be told what to do. She had no will of her own. Even to think about her irritated him. She was a great burden. It wasn’t that she was lazy. She was always on the go, always doing something around the house or in the garden, and if she sat down even for a minute she had her knitting or her sewing or her mending in her hands. But the house and the garden and even the children were only a camouflage, and when all camouflage was gone and they were alone together Martin could not endure the sight of her passive face and passive hands, and her passive body. All he wanted was to get away from her. When they were alone together she seemed lifeless, and if there was a name for the expression on her face it was shame. Her shame irritated him, because he felt it was artificial, and he thought she could have chosen another expression if she had wanted to — a more cheerful expression.