“Yes, I am tired of my life; that is all that ails me, Mr. Desmond. I am tired of my life. Of course you will tell me that it is very wicked to be tired of one’s life, and that there are people starving in those dreadful London alleys who would be very glad to come and live here, and stare at the river, and wonder whether the swans are tired of _their_ lives, as I do hour after hour in all the long, long days of the long, long summer. But, you see, that doesn’t make my case any better. I am very sorry for the poor people; and if it were not so impossible to imagine them in conjunction with amber-silk furniture, I am sure they would be very welcome to come here. I have made a feeble attempt to do some good in my neighbourhood; but I find that other people can do that kind of thing much better than I, and that my money is all that is really necessary. My life passes, and the time, which is so long as it crawls by, leaves no mark behind it. And then, when I look forward to the future, I see--a blank.” Her tone and manner had become more serious as she went on. They had walked away from the house, and by this time were in a sheltered pathway that bordered the river. “Yet the future may not be altogether blank, Emily,” answered Laurence. “There may come a time when----” “Yes; I know what you mean. There may come a time when I shall be as free as you were before you met me in the hospital at Bundersbad. I sometimes fancy that, if you or I ever see that day, it will come too late. There are sacrifices which cost too much, and the sacrifice which you have made for me is one of them.” “The greater sacrifice has been on your side,” said the editor, very gravely. “I do not know that, Laurence. I sometimes think that your bondage must be harder to bear than mine. For nine years you have patiently endured all the complaints and caprices of a discontented woman, when you might have had a bright home, and a happy wife to bid you welcome in it, but for me.” “The bright home and the happy wife may be mine yet, Emily.” “If they ever are yours, they will come to you too late. A home is one of the blessings which must not be waited for. A man loses the habit of home-life. I have seen something of this, you know, in my father’s life. He did not marry till he was between forty and fifty; and when he married, he had lost the capability of being happy at home. It will be the same with you, Laurence, if you do not marry soon. The hard, worldly way of thinking, and the self-contained feelings of a bachelor, are growing stronger with you day by day, and even a wife whom you loved would hardly be able to make home agreeable to you. And this is all my fault, Laurence--my fault!”