Noël took his cigar out of his mouth, looked at her calmly for a moment,
and said:

"Then why----"

"Why--Yes, I know what you are going to say, you have said it so
frequently--why did I marry you?" she interrupted.

"You have guessed rightly, my dear; that was just what I was about to
remark."

"I married you because I could not help myself."

"Oh, yes, you could. You might have refused, and I would have gone back
to Canada--would gladly have done so."

"No, Noël," said his wife, rising and standing before him, a rather
terrifying figure; "be at least truthful. You would not have given up
the estate even though it was burdened with an incubus like me."

"Well, well, my dear," said Noël, yawning aggravatingly, "all that is
over. As your poet says, 'Let the dead past bury its dead.'"

"Inexact in small things as well as great," said Lady Margaret, who had
returned to her accounts. "Your poet, you mean, for your quotation is
from Longfellow, and he lived nearer your country than mine."

"Oh! I never remember these fellows' names. I take it for granted you are
right. You always are, my dear. But let us return to prose. Are you going