to be photographed and on which she bestowed the prettiest side of her
hats. Cassandra and the mirror enjoyed the hats, and Chumley
disapproved. That was all the satisfaction she got out of their
purchase. Bernard took no notice of clothes during the enchanting
period of their youth, but just when his wife was feeling tired to death
of a garment, he would awake to a consciousness of its existence and
cry: "Holloa, what's this? You are mighty smart. Another new frock?"
Cassandra wished to goodness as he was not more observant, he would not
be observant at all. It made it so awkward to order new things.

Cassandra seated herself in a deep cushioned chair, folded her hands in
her lap, and began one of the animated conversations with her inner self
which were the resource of her idle hours. It was so comfortable
talking to oneself,--one could be honest, could say precisely what one
meant, need have no tiresome fears for other people's susceptibilities.

"What's the matter with me that I feel so restless and dull? I ought to
be contented and happy, but I'm not. I'm bored to death, and the
trouble of it is,--I can't think why! I've everything I could wish for,
and I'm as unsatisfied as if I'd nothing. In the name of fortune, my
dear, _what do you want_?--It comes to this--I'm either a morbid,
introspective, weak-minded fool or else I'm noble and fine, and am
stretching out for higher things. I'd like to think it was the last,
but I'm not at all sure! I don't long to be great or noble, or superior
in any way--only just to be happy, and at rest... I wonder if by chance
I'm unhappily married? That would account for so much. I wonder if I
ruined my life when I gave in, and said `yes' to Bernard! If I did, it
was with the best intentions. I _was_ fond of him. When a dull, quiet
man gets really worked up, there's something extraordinarily compelling.
And I expected he'd _stay_ worked up. At eighteen any girl would.
There ought to be a Bureau of Matrimonial Intelligence to prevent them
from making such mistakes. I'd be the secretary, and say: `My dear, he
won't! This is only a passing conflagration. It will die out, and
he'll revert to the normal. You'll have to live with the normal till
death do you part. It doesn't follow that you'll quarrel... Ah! my
dear girl, there are so many worse things! It's deplorable, of course,
to quarrel with one's husband, but the reconciliation might be worth the
pain. Yo