Mine were assuredly urgent, but I found as the days went on that to believe what I “liked” was to believe what I was more and more intimately convinced of. I found also that I didn’t like it so much as that came to, or that the pleasure at all events was far from being the cause of my conviction. My obsession, as I may really call it and as I began to perceive, refused to be elbowed away, as I had hoped, by my sense of paramount duties. If I had a great deal to do I had still more to think about, and the moment came when my occupations were gravely menaced by my thoughts. I see it all now, I feel it, I live it over. It’s terribly void of joy, it’s full indeed to overflowing of bitterness; and yet I must do myself justice--I couldn’t possibly be other than I was. The same strange impressions, had I to meet them again,'would produce the same deep anguish, the same sharp doubts, the same still sharper certainties. Oh, it’s all easier to remember than to write, but even if I could retrace the business hour by hour, could find terms for the inexpressible, the ugliness and the pain would quickly stay my hand. Let me then note very simply and briefly that a week before our wedding-day, three weeks after her death, I became fully aware that I had something very serious to look in the face, and that if I was to make this effort I must make it on the spot and before another hour should elapse. My unextinguished jealousy--_that_ was the Medusa-mask. It hadn’t died with her death, it had lividly survived, and it was fed by suspicions unspeakable. They _would_ be unspeakable to-day, that is, if I hadn’t felt the sharp need of uttering them at the time. This need took possession of me--to save me, as it appeared, from my fate. When once it had done so I saw--in the urgency of the case, the diminishing hours and shrinking interval--only one issue, that of absolute promptness and frankness. I could at least not do him the wrong of delaying another day, I could at least treat my difficulty as too fine for a subterfuge. Therefore very quietly, but none the less abruptly and hideously, I put it before him on a certain evening that we must reconsider our situation and recognise that it had completely altered. He stared bravely. “How has it altered?” “Another person has come between us.” He hesitated a moment. “I won’t pretend not to know whom you mean.” He smiled in pity for my aberration, but he meant to be kind. “A woman dead and buried!” “She’s buried, but she’s not dead. She’s dead for the world--she’s dead for me. But she’s not dead for _you._” “You hark back to the different construction we put on her appearance that evening?” “No,” I answered, “I hark back to nothing. I’ve no need of it. I’ve more than enough with what’s before me.” “And pray, darling, what is that?” “You’re completely changed.” “By that absurdity?” he laughed. “Not so much by that one as by other absurdities that have followed it.” “And what may they have been?”