“It all depends upon what you mean by a successful marriage,” Lady Walton had remarked earlier in the day. “You have now, my dear Edith, been married ten years; you look ten years younger than you are; your husband spends all his evenings at home, and you have an excellent staff of servants. I really do not see what more you can ask!” “I don’t suppose we often see why other people should ask more than they have,” Edith replied. “Other people ought to be satisfied, and yet other people aren’t.” “I don’t wish to talk metaphysics,” said Lady Walton; “it reminds me of the time when I fell downstairs on the back of my head and had concussion of the brain. I suppose you mean you haven’t any children? Neither had I, and I have never regretted it.” Lady Walton was one of those people who always thought that what she did not object to was not objectionable; she felt this very strongly. “My own faults, which I can excuse quite easily and always see reasons for,” she went on after a pause, “would annoy me excessively in a younger generation--even my virtues would seem weak and tame imitation in some pudding-faced young girl. I should have known better what to do with a boy who would have been certain to die if he had been satisfactory, and equally certain to live if he was not. No, my dear Edith, let us be thankful we have both been spared a tiresome and difficult vocation. An unhappy marriage is often made bearable by such additions, but a really happy marriage can dispense with them.” “Oh, a really happy marriage!” Edith had murmured. “My dear,” her aunt had replied briskly, “you are one of those unfortunate people who ask too much, and do not take steps to get it. You should do one or the other. What your husband needs is something to shake him. It is a pity you are not a delicate woman; you might try nerves. I suppose you are too high and mighty to stoop to flirtation.” “I should do it so badly,” said Edith, laughing, “and besides I’m forty.” “You have such a tiresome habit of remembering your own age,” her aunt replied; “it even makes me remember mine. I will take a nap.” Edith had left her and gone home. It was something, she reflected, to have a home, and--every one would have agreed--such a comfortable home. She had had a difficult life these past ten years; she had not only to make her husband happy which had been her unswerving purpose from the first, but she had had to watch her failure, and accept the lower level of opportunity allowed to her--and make him contented; she had, at least, done this.