The smile faded from his lips, he forgot the things he had come to say, and sitting down by her side he took her hand in his, but without speaking. He knew why she had been crying. He loved his wife as much as it was in his power to love anyone after himself, and to some extent he appreciated her. He recognised in her a very pure and beautiful spirit, a great depth of affection, and a clear, cultivated intellect, yet without any of that offensive pride and insolent scorn which so often accompanies freedom of thought in a woman and makes her contrast so badly with her old-fashioned Christian sister. He did not rate her powers very highly, not high enough in fact, so as to compensate for the excessive esteem in which he held his own; nevertheless she was to him a lovely, even a gifted woman, and, what was more, she loved him and took him at his own valuation, and had linked her life with his when his fortunes were at their lowest. He was always very tender with her, and had never yet, even in his occasional moments of irritation and despondence, spoken an unkind word to her. During the evening he had not failed to notice that she was ill at ease, and he rightly divined that something in himself had been the cause; nor was he at a loss to guess what that something was. Yet he had not allowed the thought to trouble him overmuch; at all events it had made no perceptible difference in his manner, his elation at the thought of the fifty pounds he was going to receive causing this little shadow to seem a very small matter. Now he was troubled by a feeling of compunction, and when he spoke at length it was in a gentle, pleading tone. “Connie,” he said, “I needn't ask you why you have been crying. I have offended you so many times that I know the signs only too well.” “That is a reproach I do not deserve, Merton,” she returned. “I am not reproaching you, dear, but myself for giving you pain.” “Have I shown myself so hard to please, so ready to take offence, that you know the signs of disapproval so well?” “No, Connie; on the contrary. But my eyes are quick to see disapproval, as yours are quick to see anything wrong in me. And I would not have it different.” After a while he continued, a little anxiously, “Do you think our visitor--I mean Eden, for I care nothing about Fan--noticed any signs of--noticed what you did?” “How can I tell, Merton? He looked a little tired, I thought.” “Did he look tired? And yet I think I talked well.” She made no reply, and he continued, “Of course, Connie, you thought I seemed too excited--that I had been taking stimulants. Is it not so?” “Yes, I thought that,” she replied, averting her eyes, and in a tone of deep pain. “Oh, Merton, is this going to continue until it grows into a habit? It will break my heart!”