with him. Here, she explained, her part was that of
discourager of enthusiasm, but repression was never practised in a more
sympathetic and discerning spirit. Her taste became hardly inferior to
his, and their barren quests together established a new comradeship
between them. It was probably, then, merely an accident that he never
included Novelli's in these aimless rounds, and so never showed her the
enamelled cross.

In the long run their imaginary foraging, always a recreation to her,
became a sore trial to him. With the demonstration that two really cannot
live cheaper than one, the old covetousness smouldering for want of an
outlet once more burned hotly within. It expressed itself outwardly in a
general uneasiness and irritability. The little fund, her money and his,
that lay in savings bank began to spend itself fantastically. One day he
reckoned that two-thirds of the cross had been put by, and banished the
disloyal thought with difficulty. Visionary plans of selling something
and making the collection pay for itself were entertained, but when it
came to the point nothing could be spared. Perhaps the gnawings of this
hunger might have been controlled, had he thought to confide in Miriam.
More likely yet, a system of rare and strictly limited indulgence might
have banked the fires between times. However that be, the thwarted
collector was to be sunk for a time in the devoted husband. Miriam lay
ill of a wasting fever.

After a two days' trial of the rooms, the doctor and the trained nurse,
who scornfully slept amid the collection, regarding it as a permanent
centre of infection, declared the situation impossible, and with the
slightest preliminary consultation of bewildered John, white-coated men
were sent for, who carried Miriam to the hospital. About her door John
hung like a miserable debarred ghost, for after the first few days her
mind wandered painfully, and his presence excited her dangerously. For
weeks he vacillated between perfunctory work at the office,
unsatisfactory talks with busy doctors and impatient nurses, and long
apprehensive hours in what had been home. In "Little Venice," in the best
powder-blue jar and the rest, he found no solace, on the contrary, the
occasion of revolting suggestions. There was an imp that whispered that
she must die and that he should resume collecting. With horror he fled
the evil place, and spent an endless night on tolerance within hearing of
her moanings.

Fevers