jetty fringe closed; and with great dismay he found that over the
masterpieces of the world Dora had fallen asleep.

Two long, bright years had passed away before Ronald began to
perceive that he could educate his pretty young wife no further.
She was a strange mixture of ignorance and uncultivated poetry.
She could speak well; her voice was sweet, her accent, caught
from him, good; alone he never noticed any deficiencies, but if
he met an English friend in Florence and brought him home to
dine, then Ronald began to wish that Dora would leave off
blushing and grow less shy, that she could talk a little more,
and that he might lose all fear of her making some terrible
blunder.

The third year of their married life dawned; Dora was just
twenty, and Ronald twenty-three. There had been no rejoicing
when he had attained his majority; it passed over unnoticed and
unmarked. News came to them from England, letters from the
little farm in Kent, telling of simple home intelligence, and
letters from Lady Earle, always sad and stained with tears. She
had no good news to tell them. Lord Earle was well, but he would
never allow his son's name to be mentioned before him, and she
longed to see her son. In all her letters Lady Earle said: "Give
my love to Dora."

In this, the third year of his married life, Ronald began to feel
the pressure of poverty. His income was not more than three
hundred a year. To Dora this seemed boundless riches; but the
heir of Earlescourt had spent more in dress and cigars. Now
debts began to press upon him, writing home he knew was useless.