right, and on one occasion when we approached the subject indirectly I
told her "Silence is best." I ought to have qualified the advice, for
she carried it too far, and was silent afterwards when she should have
spoken--that is to say, when it had become evident that endurance was
useless and degrading.

She fought hard to preserve her dignity, and was determined that "as
the husband is, the wife is," should not be true in her case. But he
did lower her insensibly, nevertheless. As her life became more and
more unendurable she became a little reckless in speech; it was a sort
of safety-valve by means of which she regained her composure, and I
soon began to recognise the sign, and to judge of the amount she had
suffered by the length to which she afterwards went in search of
relief, and the extent to which suffering made her untrue to herself.

As a rule, when with him, she was yielding, but she had fits of
determination, too, when she knew she was right. One night, as they
were driving home from a ball together, her husband suddenly declared
that he would not allow her to be one of the patronesses of a fancy
fair which was to be held for a charitable purpose, although she had
already consented and he had made no objection at the time.

"But why may I not?" Ideala asked.

"Because I object. Do you hear? I will not have it, and you must
withdraw."

"I must decline to obey any such arbitrary injunction," she answered,
quietly.