It was enough to refresh him, as it had always been. He had few words for his wife at the breakfast table, but that was not significant: he had never been an early-morning talker. ‘What time did you get in?’ Christine looked at him surreptitiously as she set two slices of toast at his left elbow; she knew that if he saw her assessing the state of his health openly, it would annoy him. Men liked to be pampered once they had decided they were ill, but until then they liked to pretend they were creatures of iron. Or this one did: having had only daughters to contend with, she was never sure whether the schoolboy remained in all men as strongly as it did in her husband. ‘Around three, I suppose. I tried not to wake you.’ He thought of her unconscious innocence and stillness as he had undressed. She looked altogether more brisk and experienced this morning; despite himself, he found his thoughts returning to that other woman, who had been despatched from life so abruptly when she was still so young.
