Her home, but not (she knows) her house.
It is his house, his wall, his garden.
She takes it hard, and means to harden
So far as courtesy allows.
Am I alone in feeling he
Could ease things with a breezy word
Or passing smile when they conferred
About the rent? Damn charity,
That blessing no one wants to name.
His rigid tendering of grace
Strikes her as some perverse device
To make him master of her shame.
What’s hardest: she will not confess
His heart is not her own to read.
If so, things might have disagreed
As ever, but a little less.
