lusions on that subject. Lucian's manner towards her
was invariably gentle, his temper was always sweet; she could say to
herself, miserably enough, but truthfully too, that he did not in the
least dislike her. If she had known it, this was something, as things
stood. But she did not know it; how should she, without a grain of
experience, and with her passionate nature, comprehend and endure the
necessity, as well as the great wisdom, of holding on simply to the fact
that she was his wife, and that no one on earth could rout her from that
position, and that in time his heart might come round to her? She did
know, however, she had learned, that such love as their marriage was to
have at present must be supplied principally by herself, and she had
accustomed her mind to accept this idea; if she was ever discontented,
she had only to recall the dreary void of her life before she knew him,
and she was reconciled. But while she was still arranging her existence
upon these foundations, a new element rose; her jealousy was excited,
and it was the strongest passion she had. She discovered that Lucian was
very apt to be more or less in love with every attractive woman, every
lovely young girl, he happened to meet. True, it was only a temporary
absorption; but it was real enough while it lasted. To this the jealous
wife could not accustom herself, this she found herself unable to take
"lightly." All the moodiness came back to her eyes, she grew suspicious
and sharp; such good looks as she had were obscured, in her unhappiness
she seemed larger and more round-shouldered than ever.

She was too proud to appeal to her husband, to tell him that he was
torturing her. So they lived on. He was wholly unconscious of the extent
of her sufferings, though he knew that she had a jealous nature; he felt
that he was a good husband, he had really married her more to please her
than to please himself; she had not so much as one unkind word, one
unkind look, with which to reproach him. He never neglected her, she
could not say that he did. She did not say it; her only wish was that he
would neglect some other persons. She preferred this condition of
things, however, racked though she often was, to any open discussions
between them, any explanations; her instinct warned her that
explanations might be worse than the reality. A woman who loves is
capable of any cowardice; or is it--any courage?

Margaret's little conversational cushion had brought t