uld have your thoughts changed; I would have you to fortify yourself
against temptation, and not to call evil good, and good evil; I should
wish you to think more deeply, to look further, and aim higher than you
do.'

CHAPTER XXIV

March 25th.--Arthur is getting tired--not of me, I trust, but of the
idle, quiet life he leads--and no wonder, for he has so few sources of
amusement: he never reads anything but newspapers and sporting magazines;
and when he sees me occupied with a book, he won't let me rest till I
close it. In fine weather he generally manages to get through the time
pretty well, but on rainy days, of which we have had a good many of late,
it is quite painful to witness his ennui. I do all I can to amuse him,
but it is impossible to get him to feel interested in what I most like to
talk about, while, on the other hand, he likes to talk about things that
cannot interest me--or even that annoy me--and these please him--the most
of all: for his favourite amusement is to sit or loll beside me on the
sofa, and tell me stories of his former amours, always turning upon the
ruin of some confiding girl or the cozening of some unsuspecting husband;
and when I express my horror and indignation, he lays it all to the
charge of jealousy, and laughs till the tears run down his cheeks. I
used to fly into passions or melt into tears at first, but seeing that
his delight increased in proportion to my anger and agitation, I have
since endeavoured to suppress my feelings and receive his revelations in
the silence of calm contempt; but still he reads the inward struggle in
my face, and misconstrues my bitterness of soul for his unworthiness into
the pangs of wounded jealousy; and when he has sufficiently diverted
himself with that, or fears my displeasure will become too serious for
his comfort, he tries to kiss and soothe me into smiles again--never were
his caresses so little welcome as then! This is double selfishness
displayed to me and to the victims of his former love. There are times
when, with a momentary pang--a flash of wild dismay, I ask myself,
'Helen, what have you done?' But I rebuke the inward questioner, and
repel the obtrusive thoughts that crowd upon me; for were he ten times as
sensual and impenetrable to good and lofty thoughts, I well know I have
no right to complain. And I don't and won't complain. I do and will
love him still; and I do not and will not regret that I have linked my
fate w