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crept out into the hall.
    Esther was sitting up' in bed reading when he entered the bedroom. She didn't put down her book but looked over the top of it as she said,
    "You're late."
    "Yes."
    Dutifully she now asked, "How did it go?"
    "One pound, eight and threepence."
    "One pound, eight and threepence!" She clicked her tongue "Yes." He began to undress, and she said nothing more until he was in his pyjamas and standing by the side of his bed. She laid down her book then and asked, almost in the same words as Gail had done, "What are you going to do about John?"
    He had a sudden and unusual desire to turn on her and cry, "I'm going to let him get cold in the grease he got hot in," but that would mean that her face would tighten, then her eyes would take on that hurt look, and when she spoke there'd be that slight tremor at the end of her words, which indicated the effort she was making to remain calm.
    Esther laid great stock on remaining calm. All the books she read, especially last thing at night, were to aid calmness. Waldo Trine's
    "In Tune with the Infinite' was her second Bible. Daily she imbibed its philosophy. He had once said to her, jokingly, " I bet you could repeat that book backwards," and she had taken his remark as censure.
    His thoughts darting off at a resentful tangent now, he said to himself, 'she even took the damn book on her honeymoon, and the second night she sat up reading it. " He shook his head at himself. He was tired, weary. That business with John had upset him, together with the lack of Christmas spirit emanating from the citizens of Fellburn. It was ludicrous, but if he hadn't stood outside each of the three pubs that lined the Market Square it would have been three and threepence he would have collected, not one pound eight and threepence. So much for Christian charity. God The felt tired and irritable, all at cross purposes with everything. It wasn't only the business of John, he had felt off colour lately. Some of the joy had gone out of life; there was a sameness about it. Why? Oh well, it was his age he supposed. They all said it happened to you as you neared forty.
    Looking at it squarely he'd had a long run for his money. He'd known contentment for years, and that was taking into account the frustrations of the bedroom too. He glanced now at Esther. She was looking at him. Her fair hair was smooth' and shining. She hadn't a wrinkle on her skin. She didn't look thirty-seven, she didn't look the mother of three children. She was wearing a pink brushed-nylon nightdress; on someone else, like Gail, it would have looked cosy, cuddly, but on Esther it only looked warm and sensible.
    He wanted to go to her now and snuggle down beside her and feel her arms going about him. He imagined her pulling his head down, pressing it in between' her breasts. He imagined himself pushing the cuddly nightie up to feel her flesh. He wanted comfort. Lord, how he needed comfort at this moment, wifely comfort, motherly comfort, mistressy comfort. The lot combined. His mouth was working and his hands moving against each other. He was sickening for something; the cold had got into his bones. He could see himself in bed with flu over the holidays
    "What?"
    "I said are you going to him ... John?"
    He stood up and looked at her. She was a good woman, Esther, a good mother, a good wife . But what made a good wife? There must be various opinions on that one. Some men had their wives every night, two and three times a night so he understood. Huh 1 From once a week, Esther had regulated it to once a month. But that was only up till Terry was born. From then it was once every time she felt like it, and Esther very rarely felt like it. It must be four months now since he had lain with her. He was only thirty-eight; he felt no different from what he had felt at eighteen. He wasn't, he supposed, what you'd call a passionate man else there would have been hell to pay, but he was human, natural; and besides he was considerate. He