“If it’s worth its salt, of course there’s no end.” “One even continuous stream into the ocean of—Nothingness! How appallingly trite and stale—nothing fresh, nothing new!” “The state has a quite peculiar freshness and newness of its own, I am told, which is perennial—and here we are at the door.” CHAPTER XXVIII. GWEN dropped quite easily into the ways of her new home, she could generally adapt herself to mere physical conditions, her unnatural unrest and craving for excitement, in the first few weeks of her married life, were, of course, the symptoms of an abnormal mental condition. So when she had to face the inevitable, and to stay her albatross-flight and betake herself to the domestic roost she did it gracefully enough, and if her wings did strain and stretch themselves now and again, till they often came near snapping, and would pull and tug at her as if they wanted to drag the heart out of her body, no one but herself—and one other, who guessed very near to the truth—was any the wiser. But it was perhaps the unconfessed humdrumness of life when her flight had ceased, that set her off on her new track—that, and her sense of justice, which began to fret and peak in her again, now there was no longer constant outer stir and movement to shut thought’s mouth. The necessity to touch dogs that will sleep no longer is a hideous one, but it must be dealt with. When Gwen found this necessity a real and absolute one, and no imaginary demand that could be shelved, she faced it, and proceeded to thrash out the ground with an organized exhaustiveness, that was almost brutal in its uncompromising frankness. She had gone through it all, by bits, in a desultory way, several times since her home-coming. This was unsatisfactory; the matter must be laid out in its full bearings and fundamentally cleared up. But the time to do this was hard to find between callers and calling. This afternoon she was quite idle, however. Humphrey was off attending a meeting in the neighbouring town, and it was snowing heavily. “The most daring visitor must jib to-day!” thought Gwen, “I shall claim it unreservedly, and I must have open air for this business.” Her maid naturally thought her mad; that mattered little. She was dressed and right out in the storm in ten minutes from the time she had taken her resolution. An old hound of Strange’s that had taken to her from the first, was as much scandalized as the maid, but he was not the one to be outdone by any slip of a girl. He gathered up his great legs, shook himself with a drowsy grunt, and followed her with a half-contemptuous curiosity.