say, those long candlelight hours of home and silence are not
easy of endurance. Mr. Furnival was a man who chose to be the master
of his own destiny, so at least to himself he boasted; and therefore
when he found himself encountered by black looks and occasionally by
sullen words, he declared to himself that he was ill-used and that he
would not bear it. Since the domestic rose would no longer yield him
honey, he would seek his sweets from the stray honeysuckle on which
there grew no thorns.

Mr. Furnival was no coward. He was not one of those men who wrong
their wives by their absence, and then prolong their absence because
they are afraid to meet their wives. His resolve was to be free
himself, and to be free without complaint from her. He would have
it so, that he might remain out of his own house for a month at the
time and then return to it for a week--at any rate without outward
bickerings. I have known other men who have dreamed of such a state
of things, but at this moment I can remember none who have brought
their dream to bear.

Mr. Furnival had written to his wife,--not from Noningsby, but
from some provincial town, probably situated among the Essex
marshes,--saying various things, and among others that he should
not, as he thought, be at home at Christmas-day. Mrs. Furnival had
remarked about a fortnight since that Christmas-day was nothing to
her now; and the base man, for it was base, had hung upon this poor,
sore-hearted word an excuse for remaining away from home. "There are
lawyers of repute staying at Noningsby," he had said, "with whom it
is very expedient that I should remain at this present crisis."--When
yet has there been no crisis present to a man who has wanted an
excuse?--"And therefore I may probably stay,"--and so on. Who does
not know the false mixture of excuse and defiance which such a letter
is sure to maintain; the crafty words which may be taken as adequate
reason if the receiver be timid enough so to receive them, or as a
noisy gauntlet thrown to the ground if there be spirit there for the
picking of it up? Such letter from his little borough in the Essex
marshes did Mr. Furnival write to the partner of his cares, and there
was still sufficient spirit left for the picking up of the gauntlet.
"I shall be home to-morrow," the letter had gone on to say, "but
I will not keep you waiting for dinner, as my hours are always so
uncertain. I shall be at my chambers till late, and will be wit