Madame Cie then told the ladies, in an artfully confidential tone,
she had a quantity of black silk coming home, which she had purchased
considerably below cost price; and that she should like to make them
each a dress--not for her own sake, but theirs--as she knew they would
never meet such a bargain again. "You know, Miss Lucas," she continued,
"we don't want our money, when we know our customers. Christmas is soon
enough for us."

"Christmas is a long time off," thought the young wife, "nearly ten
months. I think I'll have a black silk, Madame Cie; but I must not
say anything to the doctor about it just yet, or he might think me
extravagant."

"No one can ever think a lady extravagant for buying a black silk; it's
such a useful dress; lasts forever--almost."

Days, weeks, and months rolled on, and with them an ever-rolling tide of
flower-shows, dinners, at-homes, balls, operas, lawn-parties, concerts,
and theatres.

Strange that in one house there should be two people who loved each
other, yet their lives ran so far apart, except while they were asleep:
the man all industry, self-denial, patience; the woman all frivolity,
self-indulgence, and amusement; both chained to an oar, only--one in a
working boat, the other in a painted galley.

The woman got tired first, and her charming color waned sadly. She came
to him for medicine to set her up. "I feel so languid."