d for her. She looked listlessly
at the pictures, the painted ceiling, where the loves garlanded with
flowers chased each other; she lifted and let drop wearily the rich
hangings. He had said that it was all hers. How pretty was this vista
through the luxurious rooms down to the green and sunny conservatory.
And she shrank instinctively from it all. Was it hers? No; it was his.
And was she only a part of it? Was she his? How cold his look as he went
away!

What is this love, this divine passion, of which we hear so much? Is it,
then, such a discerner of right and wrong? Is it better than anything
else? Does it take the place of duty, of conscience? And yet what an
unbearable desert, what a den of wild beasts it would be, this world,
without love, the passionate, all-surrendering love of the man and the
woman!

In the chambers, in her own apartments, into which she dragged her
steps, it was worse than below. Everything here was personal. Mrs.
Fairchild had said that it was too rich, too luxurious; but her husband
would have it so. Nothing was too costly, too good, for the woman he
loved. How happy she had been in this boudoir, this room, her very own,
with her books, the souvenirs of all her happy life!

It seemed alien now, external, unsympathetic. Here, least of all places,
could she escape from herself, from her hateful thoughts. It was a
chilly day, and a bright fire crackled on the hearth. The square was
almost deserted, though the sun illuminated it, and showed all the
delicate tracery of the branches and twigs. It was a December sun. Her
easy-chair was drawn to the fire and her book-stand by it, with the
novel turned down that she had been reading the night before. She sat
down and took up the book. She had lost her interest in the characters.
Fiction! What stuff it was compared to the reality of her own life! No,
it was impossible. She must do something. She went to her dressing-room
and selected a street dress. She took pleasure in putting on the
plainest costume she could find, rejecting every ornament, everything
but the necessary and the simple. She wanted to get back to herself. Her
maid appeared in response to the bell.

"I am going out, Marie."

"Will madame have the carriage?"

"No, I will walk; I need exercise. Tell Jackson not to serve lunch."

Yes, she would walk; for it was his carriage, after all.

It was after mid-day. In the keen air and the bright sunshine the
streets were brilliant. Mar