e sense of being offended. But she said it had caused her
much suffering. She begged me to consider _myself_ free. She would
remain Faithful, and if, in time to come, I cared to write to her
again--After all these years, I can't speak of it without huskiness. It
seemed to me that I had behaved more like a scoundrel than ever. I
thought I had better kill myself, and even planned ways of doing it--I
did indeed. But after all we decided that our engagement should
continue.'

'Of course.'

'You think it natural? Well, the engagement has continued till this
day. A month ago I was forty, so that we have waited for seventeen
years.'

Micklethwaite paused on a note of awe.

'Two of Fanny's sisters are dead; they never married. The blind one
Fanny has long supported, and she will come to live with us. Long, long
ago we had both of us given up thought of marriage. I have never spoken
to any one of the engagement; it was something too absurd, and also too
sacred.'

The smile died from Everard's face, and he sat in thought.

'Now, when are _you_ going to marry?' cried Micklethwaite, with a
revival of his cheerfulness.

'Probably never.'

'Then I think you will neglect a grave duty. Yes. It is the duty of
every man, who has sufficient means, to maintain a wife. The life of
unmarried women is a wretched one; every man who is able ought to save
one of them from that fate.'

'I should like my cousin Mary and her female friends to hear you talk
in that way. They would overwhelm you with scorn.'

'Not sincere scorn, is my belief. Of course I have heard of that kind
of woman. Tell me something about them.'

Barfoot was led on to a broad expression of his views.

'I admire your old-fashioned sentiment, Micklethwaite. It sits well on
you, and you're a fine fellow. But I have much more sympathy with the
new idea that women should think Of marriage only as men do--I mean,
not to grow up in the thought that they must marry or be blighted
creatures. My own views are rather extreme, perhaps; strictly, I don't
believe in marriage at all. And I haven't anything like the respect for
women, as women, that you have. You belong to the Ruskin school; and
I--well, perhaps my experience has been unusual, though I don't think
so. You know, by-the-bye, that my relatives consider me a blackguard?'

'That affair you told me about some years ago?'

'Chiefly that. I have a good mind to tell you the true story; I didn't
care to at the time. I