As for me, I realized quite fully and unmistak-ably
that I was not only making a fool of myself,
but that I was endangering all the peace and hap-piness
of our life together. I knew, I say, but I
couldn't change. Every time Sylvia got a letter she
didn't show to me I wondered who it was from. If
she laughed and talked with any man, I found my-self
getting sulky and watchful.
At first, as I say, Sylvia laughed at me. She
thought it a huge joke. Then she didn't think the
joke so funny. Finally she didn't think it a joke at
all--
And slowly, she began to draw away from me.
Not in any physical sense, but she withdrew her
secret mind from me. I no longer knew what her
thoughts were. She was kind--but sadly, as though
from a long distance.
Little by little I realized that she no longer loved
me. Her love had died and it was I who had killed
it ....
The next step was inevitable. I found myself
waiting for it--dreading it ....
Then Derek Wainwright came into our lives. He
had everything that I hadn't. He had brains and
a witty tongue. He was good-looking, too, and--I'm
forced to admit it--a thoroughly good chap.
As soon as I saw him I said to myself, "This is just
188
Agatha Christie
the man for Sylvia .... "