"That's better, Ted," my father said when he saw me smile. "The whole
trouble has been that you lost your sense of humour over this job. Don't
lose it again."
"Suppose," I said at bed-time that evening, "that we find nothing the
matter with the acid?"
"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Now you and Helen pack up
in the morning, clear out for a week, and I'll have the acid examined
while you are away."
Upstairs, I sat before our study fire without daring to look at Helen.
She stopped brushing out her hair and perched on the arm of my chair,
putting her cheek against mine.
"What do you want me to say, Ted?"
"If you speak the truth you'll say that you have married an incompetent
fool who messes up everything he tries to do."
"Don't let it hurt you so, Ted, darling."
"It was my job to find out, and I didn't. You can't get away from that."
Helen rumpled my hair pensively. Each of us had several things to say;
the difficulty was to say them. Helen went on silently stroking my head.
"I try to think--why the devil does it always seem afterwards as if I
hadn't thought at all?"