Anne Singleton took long to read the letter. When she had finished
it, and had read it through again, she rose, and, crushing it her
hand, flung it in the fire with a laugh, and as the flame burnt up
and died away felt that her life had died with it, not knowing that
bruised hearts can heal.

So when John Ingerfield comes wooing, and speaks to her no word of
love but only of money, she feels that here at last is a genuine
voice that she can trust. Love of the lesser side of life is still
left to her. It will be pleasant to be the wealthy mistress of a
fine house, to give great receptions, to exchange the secret poverty
of home for display and luxury. These things are offered to her on
the very terms she would have suggested herself. Accompanied by love
she would have refused them, knowing she could give none in return.

But a woman finds it one thing not to desire affection and another
thing not to possess it. Day by day the atmosphere of the fine house
in Bloomsbury grows cold and colder about her heart. Guests warm it
at times for a few hours, then depart, leaving it chillier than
before.

For her husband she attempts to feel indifference, but living
creatures joined together cannot feel indifference for each other.
Even two dogs in a leash are compelled to think of one another. A
man and wife must love or hate, like or dislike, in degree as the
bond connecting them is drawn tight or allowed to hang slack. By
mutual desire their chains of wedlock have been fastened as loosely
as respect for security will permit, with the happy consequence that
her aversion to him does not obtrude itself beyond the limits of
politeness.