This Dublin knew little of Boyne's present domestic life. It did not
know that he had injured his second wife as badly as he had wronged his
first--with this difference, however, that his first wife was a lady,
while his second wife, Noreen, was a beautiful, quick-tempered, lovable
eighteen-year-old girl, a graduate of the kitchen and dairy, when he took
her to himself. He had married her in a mad moment after his first wife
--Mrs. Llyn, as she was now called--had divorced him; and after the first
thrill of married life was over, nothing remained with Boyne except
regret that he had sold his freedom for what he might, perhaps, have had
without marriage.

Then began a process of domestic torture which alienated Noreen from him,
and roused in her the worst passions of human nature. She came to know
of his infidelities, and they maddened her. They had no children, and in
the end he had threatened her with desertion. When she had retorted in
strong words, he slapped her face, and left her with an ugly smile.

The house where they lived was outside Dublin, in a secluded spot, yet
not far from stores and shops. There was this to be said for Noreen--
that she kept her home spotlessly clean, even with two indifferent
servants. She had a gift for housewifery, which, at its best, was as
good as anything in the world, and far better than could be found in most
parts of Ireland.

Of visitors they had few, if any, and the young wife was left alone to
brood upon her wrongs. Erris Boyne had slapped her face on the morning
of the day when he met Dyck Calhoun in the hour of his bad luck. He did
not see the look in her face as he left the house.