loose into Eden with the Serpent.

And now we see _Mary_ seated in the lap of luxury, with soft gowns to
wear, and peaches to eat and instant slaves at her beck. You will, of
course, expect her virtue to fall an easy prey; but you will be wrong.
The Earl's attitude is pleasantly parental, and the attentions of
the Countess's cavalier--an author--are confined to the extraction
of copy. And anyhow _Mary's_ instincts are sound. Now and again she
remembers to pity the loneliness of her husband, whose cottage light
she can see from the window of her bower; and once, by a ruse, she
gets him to break the conditions and visit her; but when he learns
that the invitation came from her, and not, as alleged, from the
Countess, his conscience will not permit him to take advantage of his
chance. So you have the unusual spectacle of a true and loving wife
pleading in vain for the embraces of her true and loving husband.

But if her virtue, in the technical sense, remained intact, the
Serpent had overfed her with _pommes de luxe_. On her return
home--where the restoration of her child might have helped matters,
but it doesn't know who she is and refuses to part from its
foster-mother--we find her lethargic, off her feed, indifferent to the
claims of menial toil, and clamorous (as I have shown) for her rights
of the daily bath.

In the first joy of conjugal reunion _Ezra_ consents to tolerate the
discomfort of this change, but in the end he loses patience and hits
her. She leaves for London the same afternoon.

Six black months pass over the husband's bowed head, and then, on a
very windy night (the wind was well done), she makes a re-entry, and