to
this. Would he speak of _her?_ No. There was a natural tact and delicacy
in him which waited for the husband to introduce the subject.)

Penrose only said, "How is the great work getting on?"

The answer was sternly spoken in one word--"Badly!"

"I am surprised to hear that, Romayne."

"Why? Were you as innocently hopeful as I was? Did you expect my
experience of married life to help me in writing my book?"

Penrose replied after a pause, speaking a little sadly. "I expected your
married life to encourage you in all your highest aspirations," he said.

(Stella turned pale with suppressed anger. He had spoken with perfect
sincerity. The unhappy woman believed that he lied, for the express
purpose of rousing irritation against her, in her husband's irritable
mind. She listened anxiously for Romayne's answer.)

He made no answer. Penrose changed the subject. "You are not looking
very well," he gently resumed. "I am afraid your health has interfered
with your work. Have you had any return--?"

It was still one of the characteristics of Romayne's nervous
irritability that he disliked to hear the terrible delusion of the Voice
referred to in words. "Yes," he interposed bitterly, "I have heard it
again and again. My right hand is as red as ever, Penrose, with the
blood of a fellow-creature. Another destruction of my illusions when I
married!"

"Romayne! I don't like to hear you speak of your marriage in that way."

"Oh, very well. Let us go back to my book. Perhaps I shall get on better
with it now you are here to help me. My ambition to make a name in the
world has never taken so strong a hold on me (I don't know why, unless
other disappointments have had something to do with it) as at this time,
when I find I can't give my mind to my work. We will make a last effort
together, my friend! If it fails, we will put my manuscripts into the
fire, and I will try some other career. Politics are open to me. Through
politics, I might make my mark in diplomacy. There is something in
directing the destinies of nations wonderfully attractive to me in
my present state of feeling. I hate the idea of being indebted for my
position in the world, like the veriest fool living, to the accidents
of birth and fortune. Are _you_ content with the obscure life that you
lead? Did you not envy that priest (he is no older than I am) who was
sent the other day as the Pope's ambassador to Portugal?"

Penrose spoke out at last without hesit