eth had been accustomed all her life to have delicate china
about her, and pictures and books, to walk on soft carpets and sit in
easy-chairs; possessions of a superior class which, in her case, were
symbols bespeaking refinement of taste and habits from which her soul
had derived satisfaction even while her poor little fragile body
starved. She dressed regularly and daintily herself, and Dan at the
bottom of the table in his morning coat was an offence to her. She
said nothing at first, however, so his manners still further
deteriorated, until one night, after she had gone to her room, he
walked in with his hat on, smoking a cigar. It was this last
discourtesy that roused her to rebel.

"This is my bedroom," she said significantly.

"I know," he answered.

"You know--yet you keep your hat on, and you are smoking," she
proceeded.

"Why," he rejoined, "and if I do, what then? I know ladies who let
their husbands smoke in bed."

"Probably," she said. "I have heard of more singularly coarse things
than that even. But I am accustomed to pure air in my room, and I must
have it."

"And suppose I should choose to stay here and smoke?" he said.

"Of course I could not prevent you," she answered; "but I should go
and sleep in another room."

"H'm," he grunted. "You're mighty particular."

But he went away all the same, and did not appear there again either
with his hat on or smoking a cigar.

Beth suffered miserably from the want of proper privacy in her life.
She had none whatever now. It had been her habit to read and reflect
when she went to bed, to prepare for a tranquil night by setting aside
the troubles of the day, and purifying her mind systematically even as
she washed her body; but all that was impossible if her husband were
at home. He would break in upon her reading with idle gossip, fidget
about the room when she wished to meditate, and leave her no decent
time of privacy for anything. He had his own dressing-room, where he
was secure from interruption, but never had the delicacy to comprehend
that his presence could be any inconvenience to Beth. And it was worse
than an inconvenience. It was a positive hardship--never to be sure of
a moment alone.

One afternoon, when she had locked herself in her bedroom, he came and
turned the handle of the door noisily.

"Open the door," he said.

"Do you want anything?" she asked.

"Open the door," he repeated.

She obeyed, and he came in, and glanced round