or fear. In the town of
Canterbury lived a sister of his who for several years had been happily
wedded, but remained childless. If the worst came to the worst, if his
wife compelled him to the breaking-up of a home which was no home, this
married sister would gladly take the little boy into her motherly care.
He had never dared to propose the step; but Ada might perchance
give ready assent to it, even now. For motherhood she had no single
qualification but the physical. Before her child's coming into the
world, she snarled at the restraints it imposed upon her; at its birth,
she clamoured against nature for the pains she had to undergo, and hated
her husband because he was the intermediate cause of them. The helpless
infant gave her no pleasure, touched no emotion in her heart, save when
she saw it in the nurse's care, and received female compliments upon its
beauty. She rejected it at night because it broke her sleep; in the
day, because she could not handle it without making it cry. When Peachey
remonstrated with her, she stared in insolent surprise, and wished that
_he_ had had to suffer all her hardships of the past year.

Peachey could not be said to have any leisure. On returning from
business he was involved forthwith in domestic troubles and broils,
which consumed the dreary evening, and invaded even his sleep. Thus it
happened that at long intervals he was tempted, instead of going home
to dinner, to spend a couple of hours at a certain small eating-house, a
resort of his bachelor days, where he could read the newspapers, have
a well-cooked chop in quietude, and afterwards, if acquaintances were
here, play a game of chess. Of course he had to shield this modest
dissipation with a flat falsehood, alleging to his wife that business
had kept him late. Thus on an evening of June, when the soft air and the
mellow sunlight overcame him with a longing for rest, he despatched a
telegram to De Crespigny Park, and strolled quietly about the streets
until the hour and his appetite pointed him tablewards. The pity of
it was that he could not dismiss anxieties; he loathed the coward
falsehood, and thought more of home than of his present freedom. But at
least Ada's tongue was silent.

He seated himself in the familiar corner, and turned over illustrated
papers, whilst his chop hissed on the grid. Ah, if he were but
unmarried, what a life he might make for himself now that the day's
labour brought its ample reward! He would