When I return home, I find that Barbara is still no better.

She is still lying in her darkened room, and has asked not to be disturbed.

And even _my_ wrongs are not such as to justify my forcing myself upon the painful privacy of a sick-headache.

How much the better am I then than I was before my late expedition?
I have brought home my old grievance quite whole and unlightened by communication, and I have got a new and fresh one in addition, with absolutely no one to whom to impart it; for, even when Frank comes, I will certainly not tell _him_.

I am too restless to remain in-doors over the fire, though thoroughly chilled by my late drive, and resolve to try and restore my circulation by a brisk walk in the park.
The afternoon is still young, and the day is mending.