d me if you could have foreseen it."

"Very probably not," she answered calmly, "and it is not _my_ fault that
I have not yet learned to live with peace of mind and comfort on seven
hundred a year. It was hard enough to exist on two thousand till your
uncle died, and now----"

"Well, and now, Honoria, if you will only have patience and put up with
things for a while, you shall be rich enough; I will make money for you,
as much money as you want. I have many friends. I have not done so badly
at the Bar this year."

"Two hundred pounds, nineteen shillings and sevenpence, minus
ninety-seven pounds rent of chambers and clerk," said Lady Honoria, with
a disparaging accent on the sevenpence.

"I shall double it next year, and double that again the next, and so on.
I work from morning till night to get on, that you may have--what you
live for," he said bitterly.

"Ah, I shall be sixty before that happy day comes, and want nothing but
scandal and a bath chair. I know the Bar and its moaning," she added,
with acid wit. "You dream, you imagine what you would like to come true,
but you are deceiving me and yourself. It will be like the story of Sir
Robert Bingham's property once again. We shall be beggars all our days.
I tell you, Geoffrey, that you had no right to marry me."

Then at length he lost his temper. This was not the first of these
scenes--they had grown frequent of late, and this bitter water was
constantly dropping.

"Right?" he said, "and may I ask what right you had to marry me when you
don't even pretend you ever cared one straw for me, but just accepted me
as you would have accepted any other man who was a tolerably good match?
I grant that I first thought of proposing to you because my uncle wished
it, but if I did not love you I meant to be a good husband to you, and I
should have loved you if you would let me. But you are cold and selfish;
you looked upon a husband merely as a stepping-stone to luxury; you have
never loved anybody except yourself. If I had died last night I believe
that you would have cared more about having to go into mourning than for
the fact of my disappearance from your life. You showed no more
feeling for me when you came in than you would have if I had been a
stranger--not so much as some women might have for a stranger. I wonder
sometimes if you have any feeling left in you at all. I should think
that you treat me as you do because you do not care for me and do care
for some oth