It was a trying scene, however. No man likes to see a woman whom he loves suffer, and Sibella displayed a quite extraordinary amount of resentment, considering that physical jealousy cannot in the nature of things be as strong a passion with woman as with man. “You will kiss her, and make love to her,” she moaned. “My sweetheart,” I murmured, taking her in my arms, “you know perfectly well that I do not love anyone in the wide world as well as I do you—but just think what this marriage will do for me.” “I have sacrificed so much for you, Israel; you might at least sacrifice something for me.” “My darling, I will make any sacrifice that you can show me is necessary.” “This is the end of everything between us, you will see. I shall never be happy again.” She was softening; the danger was over. I pointed out that she had made the marriage she wanted to; she might at least allow me the same privilege. “I did not know that I was in love with you,” she whimpered. I reasoned with her in the most winning way. I would send her a little French novel, one of the most philosophical works I had ever read, although presented as the lightest of fiction, a pill coated like a sugar-plum. In it there were two people who had loved each other all their lives, and kept their romance evergreen because they did not marry. Marriage spoilt so many things. It was the microscope turned on to the apparently limpid waters of romance. It showed a mass of horrid, swirling, swimming, ugly things that there was no need to see. Why use a microscope? She must have learned the evil of the matrimonial microscope from Lionel. Delusions were as good as realities if one were consistent. If we had been rich we might have married each other. Therefore, poverty knew what was best for us, and had been our most sincere friend. I think I left her pacified; at least, to the extent of not being dangerous. Lionel came in, and I was obliged to go. I was compelled of course to spend a great deal of time at South Kensington. Edith was radiantly happy, and her romance had brought something into her face which it had hitherto lacked. I was very proud of her. Poor Sibella, who had seen her at some public function, had evidently not expected anything so beautiful, for she declared that I must surely love so exquisite a creature better than herself. As a matter of fact, Miss Gascoyne’s beauty, although of a higher type, was not so dazzling as Sibella’s, and I could honestly say, “One admires Miss Gascoyne, but one does not love her,” which had a very good effect on Sibella. It was put authoritatively, and it convinced her.