from any especial amusement, and they went together into the pretty
dining-room.

Fenton acknowledged himself fond of the refinements of life, and his
sensitive, sensuous nature lost none of the delights of a well-
appointed home. He lived in a quiet and elegant luxury which would have
been beyond the attainment of most artists, and which indeed not
infrequently taxed his resources to the utmost.

The table at which the pair sat down was laid with exquisite damask and
china, the dinner admirable and well served. The dishes came in hot,
the maid was deft and comely in appearance, and the master of the
house, who always kept watch, in a sort of involuntary self-
consciousness, of all that went on about him, was pleasantly aware that
the most fastidious of his friends could have found nothing amiss in
the appointment or the service of his table. How much the perfect
arrangement of domestic affairs demanded from his wife, Fenton found it
more easy and comfortable not to inquire, but he at least appreciated
the results of her management. He never came to accept the smallest
trifles of life without emotion. His pleasure or annoyance depended
upon minute details, and things which people in general passed without
notice were to him the most important facts of daily life. The
responsibility for the comfort of so highly organized a creature, Edith
had found to be anything but a light burden. Only a wife could have
appreciated the pleasure she had in having the most delicate shades in
her domestic management noted and enjoyed; or the discomfort which
arose from the same source. It was delightful to have her husband
pleased by the smallest pains she took for his comfort; to know that
his eye never failed to discover the little refinements of dress or
cookery or household adornment; but wearing was the burden of