Billy frowned, and put her finger to her lips.
Was that then, last night, a ``test''? Had she
been ``tyrannical and exacting''? Was she
``everlastingly peering into the recesses'' of Bertram's
mind and ``weighing his every act''?
Was Bertram already beginning to ``chafe''
under these new bonds that held him?

No, no, never that! She could not believe that.
But what if he should sometime begin to chafe?
What if they two should, in days to come,
degenerate into just the ordinary, everyday married
folk, whom she saw about her everywhere, and
for whom just such horrid books as this must be
written? It was unbelievable, unthinkable. And
yet, that man had said--

With a despairing sigh Billy picked up the paper
once more and read carefully every word again.
When she had finished she stood soberly thoughtful,
her eyes out of the window.

After all, it was nothing but the same old story.
She was exacting. She did want her husband's
every thought. She _gloried_ in peering into every
last recess of his mind if she had half a chance.
She was jealous of his work. She had almost
hated his painting--at times. She had held him
up with a threatened scene only the night before
and demanded that he should give an account