The "sitting-room" was a snug apartment, warm, cosy, luxurious, and we
found a genial little party of intimate acquaintances there when we
arrived. Ideala's husband was not one of them. He did not take her out
much at that time. Probably he was engaged in some private pursuit of
his own, and insisted on her going everywhere alone to keep her out of
the way. A little while before he would scarcely allow her to pay a
call without him. But, as a rule, whatever his mood was, she did as he
wished--and provoked him sometimes, I think, by her patient compliance;
a little resistance would have made the exercise of his authority more
exciting.

When we entered the sitting-room "an ominous silence feel on the
group," which was broken at last by one of the ladies remarking that a
kind heart was an admirable thing. Another agreed, and made some
observations on the merits of self-sacrifice generally.

"But some people are not satisfied with merely _doing_ a good deed," a
gentleman declared, with profound gravity. "They think there is no
merit in it if they do not suffer for it in some way themselves."

There was a good deal more of this kind of thing, and we were beginning
to feel rather out of it, when presently the preternatural gravity of
the party was broken by a laugh, and then it was explained.

Ideala had gone to a neighbouring town one day by train, and before she
started a poor woman got into the carriage. The woman had a third-class
ticket, but she was evidently ill, and when the guard came and wanted
to turn her out, Ideala took pity on her, insisted on changing tickets,
and travelled third class herself. The woman had been to the Palace,