"Well, Harriett, we haven't been able to do much for you. In my beastly
state----"

"You'll get better."

"Never. I'm done for, Harriett. I don't complain."

"You've got a devoted wife, Robin."

"Yes. Poor girl, she does what she can."

"She does too much."

"My dear woman, she wouldn't be happy if she didn't."

"It isn't good for her. Does it never strike you that she's not strong?"

"Not strong? She's--she's almost indecently robust. What wouldn't I give
to have her strength!"

She looked at him, at the lean figure sunk in the armchair, at the
dragged, infirm face, the blurred, owlish eyes, the expression of abject
self-pity, of self-absorption. That was Robin.

The awful thing was that she couldn't love him, couldn't go on being
faithful. This injured her self-esteem.



XI