that his eyes were not blinded to her shortcomings. She was still the
same winsome girl he had made his own; large-hearted, gentle and
affectionate, but--and he sighed impatiently, for that something
lacking was for ever pulling him back and standing in the way of his
own social advancement.

He became less demonstrative, less congenial, and his practice made
huge demands upon his time, and left but scant opportunity for
pleasure-seeking. Lines traced themselves upon his brow and lurked at
the corners of his mouth; he aged rapidly, and began to look like an
elderly man while Bella was still little more than a girl.

On the night of Mrs. Chetwynd's return from the maternal roof (for
Mrs. Blackall still lived near the Waterloo Road, and her elder
daughter continued to make her home with her), she found her husband,
a good deal to her surprise, seated in the drawing-room, gay with
flowers and crowded with knick-nacks of every description. He had in
his hand a book which he flung down with an annoyed gesture as his
wife opened the door.

It was perhaps no worse than others of its type, but it had not an
honest moral tone and was not therefore, John Chetwynd considered, a
desirable work for his young wife's perusal.

"Have you read this?" he asked.

"No; it is one of Saidie's. Is it interesting?"

John Chetwynd's answer was to hurl the volume under the grate with an
angry word.