She was not a clever woman, I imagine; and as the first result of
her cogitation she appears to have made the mistake of being,
that evening, too kind to her husband. She could not ply him
with wine, according to the traditional expedient, for though he
drank heavily at times he had a strong head; and when he drank
beyond its strength it was because he chose to, and not because a
woman coaxed him. Not his wife, at any rate--she was an old
story by now. As I read the case, I fancy there was no feeling
for her left in him but the hatred occasioned by his supposed
dishonour.

At any rate, she tried to call up her old graces; but early in
the evening he complained of pains and fever, and left the hall
to go up to his room. His servant carried him a cup of hot wine,
and brought back word that he was sleeping and not to be
disturbed; and an hour later, when Anne lifted the tapestry and
listened at his door, she heard his loud regular breathing. She
thought it might be a feint, and stayed a long time barefooted in
the cold passage, her ear to the crack; but the breathing went on
too steadily and naturally to be other than that of a man in a
sound sleep. She crept back to her room reassured, and stood in
the window watching the moon set through the trees of the park.
The sky was misty and starless, and after the moon went down the
night was pitch black. She knew the time had come, and stole
along the passage, past her husband's door--where she stopped
again to listen to his breathing--to the top of the stairs.
There she paused a moment, and assured herself that no one was
following her; then she began to go down the stairs in the
darkness. They were so steep and winding that she had to go very
slowly, for fear of stumbling. Her one thought was to get the