by a more than usually desolate Sunday. I became at once aware that my
affection for her, if it ever really existed, had departed. I saw
before me the long days of wedded life with no sympathy, and I
shuddered when I thought what I should do with such a wife. How could
I take her to Mardon? How could I ask him to come to me? Strange to
say, my pride suffered most. I could have endured, I believe, even
discord at home, if only I could have had a woman whom I could present
to my friends, and whom they would admire. I was never unselfish in
the way in which women are, and yet I have always been more anxious
that people should respect my wife than respect me, and at any time
would withdraw myself into the shade if only she might be brought into
the light. This is nothing noble. It is an obscure form of egotism
probably, but anyhow, such always was my case.

It took but a very few hours to excite me to distraction. I had gone
on for years without realising what I saw now, and although in the
situation itself the change had been only gradual, it instantaneously
became intolerable. Yet I never was more incapable of acting. What
could I do? After such a long betrothal, to break loose from her would
be cruel and shameful. I could never hold up my head again, and in the
narrow circle of Independency, the whole affair would be known and my
prospects ruined.

Then other and subtler reasons presented themselves. No men can expect
ideal attachments. We must be satisfied with ordinary humanity.
Doubtless my friend with a lofty imagination would be better matched
with some Antigone who exists somewhere and whom he does not know. But
he wisely does not spend his life in vain search after her, but settles
down with the first decently sensible woman he finds in his own street,
and makes the best of his bargain. Besides, there was the power of use