 My Lady Love, My Dove, read by Richard Griffiths It's been my habit for many years to take a nap after lunch. I settle myself in a chair in a living-room with a cushion behind my head, and my feet up on a small square leather stool, and I read until I drop off. On this Friday afternoon I was in my chair, and feeling as comfortable as ever with a book in my hands, an old favourite, double day in Westwoods, the genera of diurnal lepidoptera, when my wife, who's never been a silent lady, began to talk to me from the sofa opposite. "'These two people,' she said. "'What time are they coming?' I made no answer. So she repeated the question, louder this time. I told her politely that I didn't know. I don't think I like them very much,' she said, especially him. No, dear, all right. Arthur, I said I don't think I like them very much.' I lowered my book and looked across at her lying with her feet up on the sofa, flipping over the pages of some fashion magazine. We've only met them once, I said. A dreadful man, really. Never stopped telling jokes or stories or something. I'm sure you'll manage him very well, dear. And she's pretty frightful, too. When do you think they'll arrive?' Somewhere around six o'clock, I guess. "'But don't you think they're awful?' she asked, pointing at me with her finger. "'Well, they're too awful. They really are. We can hardly put them off now, Pamela. They're absolutely the end,' she said. "'Then why did you ask them?' The question slipped out before I could stop myself and I regretted it at once. For it's a rule with me never to provoke my wife if I can help it. There was a pause and I watched her face waiting for the answer. The big, white face that to me was something so strange and fascinating, there were occasions when I could hardly bring myself to look away from it. In the evenings, sometimes, working on her embroidery or painting those small intricate flower pictures, the face would tighten and glimmer with a subtle inward strength that was beautiful beyond words. And I would sit and stare at it minute after minute while pretending to read. Even now, at this moment, with that compressed, acid look, the frowning forehead, the petulant curl of the nose, I had to admit there was a majestic quality about this woman, something splendid, almost—' All complete. Ready to continue?