to
him, after a little while, with an earnestness which showed how deeply
she felt her position. At the very outset she told him that her love
for her husband had never altered for a moment--that all the prayer
and desire of her heart was that they two might be to each other
as she had at one time hoped they would be, when he got to know her
better. She went over all the story of her coming to London, of her
first experiences there, of the conviction that grew upon her that her
husband was somehow disappointed with her, and only anxious now that
she should conform to the ways and habits of the people with whom
he associated. She spoke of her efforts to obey his wishes, and how
heartsick she was with her failures, and of the dissatisfaction which
he showed. She spoke of the people to whom he devoted his life, of
the way in which he passed his time, and of the impossibility of her
showing him, so long as he thus remained apart from her, the love she
had in her heart for him, and the longing for sympathy which that love
involved. And then she came to the question of Mrs. Lorraine; and
here it seemed to Ingram she was trying at once to put her husband's
conduct in the most favorable light, and to blame herself for her
unreasonableness. Mrs. Lorraine was a pleasant companion to him, she
could talk cleverly and brightly, she was pretty, and she knew a large
number of his friends. Sheila was anxious to show that it was the most
natural thing in the world that her husband, finding her so out of
communion with his ordinary surroundings, should make an especial
friend of this graceful and fascinating woman. And if at times it
hurt her to be left alone--But here the girl broke down somewhat, and
Ingram pretended not to know that she was crying.

These were strange things to be told to a man, and they were difficult
to answer. But out of these revelations--which rather took the form of
a cry than of any distinct statement--he formed a notion of Sheila's
position sufficiently exact; and the more he looked at it the more
alarmed and pained he grew, for he knew more of her than her husband
did. He knew the latent force of character that underlay all her
submissive gentleness. He knew the keen sense of pride her Highland
birth had given her; and he feared what might happen if this sensitive
and proud heart of hers were driven into rebellion by some--possibly
unintentional--wrong. And this high-spirited, fearless, honor-loving
girl--w