must have been "rubbed in"
to the poor girl before him! Other things, too, came back to him,
especially on Bland's part certain stolen moments of tenderness toward
the girl, that had been interrupted in Chip's presence by a peremptory
voice, saying, "Now, Emery, don't spoil the child," or "Lily, dear,
_can't_ you find anything better to do than tease your uncle?" In it all
Chip had found two subjects of wonderment: first, the strange egoism of
this middle-aged woman who could see nothing in the expansion of her
husband's affections but what was stolen from herself; and then, the
extraordinary freak of marital loyalty that could keep a man like Emery
Bland, with his refinement and his knowledge of the world, true to a
woman whom he had once loved, no doubt, in a youthful way, but who was
now his inferior by every token of character. A good enough woman she
was of her kind; but it was no more her husband's kind than it was that
of the gods immortal. What was the secret that kept these unequal
yoke-fellows together, sympathetic, and tolerably happy, when he and
Edith, who were made for each other, had by some force of mutual
expulsion been thrust apart? Bland himself was of the type which, in the
language that was almost more familiar to him than English, Chip would
have called _charmeur_; and yet he deferred to this second-rate woman,
and considered her, and even loved her in a placid, steady-going way,
submitting at times to her dictation. Chip couldn't understand it. If he
himself had been married to Mrs. Bland--But that was unthinkable. What
wasn't unthinkable, and yet became the more bewildering the more he
tried to work the problem out, was that he himself had failed to keep
for his own the woman who suited him in every respect, whose love he
possessed and who possessed his, who was happy with him and he with her,
while Emery Bland had contrived to make the most of the estimable but
rather coarse-grained lady who sat at the head of his table, and have a
truly enviable life with her. No one could be more keenly aware of the
lady's shortcomings, which lay within the realm of taste and
intelligence, than Bland himself. What was his secret? Was it a
principle, or was it nothing but a lucky accident? Was it something in a
cast of character or a tenet of a creed, or was it what any one could
emulate?

These thoughts and questions passed rapidly through Chip's mind, not for
the first time, during the two or three minutes in