about bridges and electrical plant interminably. I don’t know how people can live with such petty, dull things taking up all their minds. Sometimes one or two of them have the graciousness to ask me if I have seen the latest play or film, but I never have, and I just have to sit and smile while He says, “We’re quiet, domestic people, my wife and I; we don’t care about this night life.” And if I ever suggest going out, he pretends that I want to be “gadding round” in nightclubs at all hours. I am ashamed of being so ignorant of the things everybody is talking about. Other husbands take their wives out. But no—if I want to stir out of doors, I’m a bad woman—“one of these modern wives who don’t care for their homes.” What kind of place is my home, that I should care about it?
I have got that book you were talking about, Women in Love . It is very queer and coarse in parts, don’t you think, and rather bewildering, but some of the descriptions are very beautiful. I don’t understand it all, but it is thrilling, like music. That bit about the horse, for instance. I can’t quite make out what he means, but