The Hollow by Agatha Christie

inattentive—he couldn’t quite describe it—that lookof seeing something—something that wasn’t there—something (and that was the crux of it) something that wasn’t John Christow!
    He said to himself: “I know she’s a sculptor. I know her work’s good. But damn it all, can’t she put it aside sometimes? Can’t she sometimes think of me—and nothing else?”
    He was unfair. He knew he was unfair. Henrietta seldom talked of her work—was indeed less obsessed by it than most artists he knew. It was only on very rare occasions that her absorption with some inner vision spoiled the completeness of her interest in him. But it always roused his furious anger.
    Once he had said, his voice sharp and hard: “Would you give all this up if I asked you to?”
    â€œAll—what?” Her warm voice held surprise.
    â€œAll—this.” He waved a comprehensive hand round the studio.
    And immediately he thought to himself: “Fool! Why did you ask her that?” And again: “Let her say: ‘Of course.’ Let her lie to me! If she’ll only say: ‘Of course I will.’ It doesn’t matter if she means it or not! But let her say it. I must have peace.”
    Instead she had said nothing for some time. Her eyes had gone dreamy and abstracted. She had frowned a little.
    Then she had said slowly:
    â€œI suppose so. If it was necessary. ”
    â€œNecessary? What do you mean by necessary?”
    â€œI don’t really know what I mean by it, John. Necessary, as an amputation might be necessary.”
    â€œNothing short of a surgical operation, in fact!”
    â€œYou are angry. What did you want me to say?”
    â€œYou know well enough. One word would have done. Yes. Why couldn’t you say it? You say enough things to people to pleasethem, without caring whether they’re true or not. Why not to me? For God’s sake, why not to me?”
    And still very slowly she had answered:
    â€œI don’t know…really, I don’t know, John. I can’t—that’s all. I can’t.”
    He had walked up and down for a minute or two. Then he said:
    â€œYou will drive me mad, Henrietta. I never feel that I have any influence over you at all.”
    â€œWhy should you want to have?”
    â€œI don’t know. I do.”
    He threw himself down on a chair.
    â€œI want to come first.”
    â€œYou do, John.”
    â€œNo. If I were dead, the first thing you’d do, with the tears streaming down your face, would be to start modelling some damned mourning woman or some figure of grief.”
    â€œI wonder. I believe—yes, perhaps I would. It’s rather horrible.”
    She had sat there looking at him with dismayed eyes.
    II
    The pudding was burnt. Christow raised his eyebrows over it and Gerda hurried into apologies.
    â€œI’m sorry, dear. I can’t think why that should happen. It’s my fault. Give me the top and you take the underneath.”
    The pudding was burnt because he, John Christow, had stayed sitting in his consulting room for a quarter of an hour after he need, thinking about Henrietta and Mrs. Crabtree and letting ridiculous nostalgic feelings about San Miguel sweep over him. The fault was his. It was idiotic of Gerda to try and take the blame, maddening of her to try and eat the burnt part herself. Why did she always have to make a martyr of herself? Why did Terence stare at him in that slow, interested way? Why, oh why, did Zena have to sniff so continually? Why were they all so damned irritating?
    His wrath fell on Zena.
    â€œWhy on earth don’t you blow your nose?”
    â€œShe’s got a little cold, I think, dear.”
    â€œNo, she hasn’t. You’re always thinking they have colds! She’s all right.”
    Gerda sighed. She had never been able to understand why a doctor, who spent his time treating the ailments of others, could be so