The simple facts were that they breathed a different atmosphere--their
heads were in a different stratum. His normal pulse was eighty; hers,
sixty-five.

What do you think of a spiritual companionship where the wife demands,
"How much longer are you going to follow this foolish habit of writing
verses?"

They did not understand each other. Byron uttered words that no man should
voice to a woman, and his outbursts were met with a forced calmness that
was exasperating. The lady sat down, yawned wearily, and when there came a
lull in the gentleman's verbal pyrotechnics, she would ask him if he had
anything more to say.

One day she varied the program by packing up her effects and leaving him.

Of course, it is easy to say that had this woman been wise she would have
stood the childish outbursts and endured the peevish tantrums, for the
sake of the hours of tenderness and love that were sure to follow. By
right treatment he would have been on his knees, begging forgiveness and
crying it out with his head in her lap very shortly. But all this implies
a woman of unusual power--extraordinary patience. And this woman was
simply human. She left, and then in order to justify her action she gave
reasons. Our actions are usually right, but our reasons for them seldom
are.

Mrs. Byron made no concealment of her troubles. Society had occasion for
gossip and the occasion was improved. Stories of Byron's cruelty and
inhumanity filled the coffeehouses and drawing-rooms; and the hints at