Special effort is needed to keep in mind how little Marianne's husband knew of the causes of her perturbation. So far as he could see, the whole ground was covered by illogical resentment against a group of his friends, whose advances to herself--as it seemed to him--she had inexcusably rejected. Still, he could frame excuses for her; it was not for her as it was for him; he had the key of the position. It was a case for compromise, and Marianne was uncompromising. That was all! As for any conception that a new light thrown on his past had presented him to her as distrustful and secretive--certainly keeping back something she must have a right to know; possibly, though she hesitated over this, something disgraceful to himself--no such idea crossed his mind for a moment. It would be all right in the morning! He had said that many a time overnight, in tiff-times, and peace had followed as predicted. Tulse Hill, considered as an incident, was too recent for any sort of conciliatory effort to be worth making--to-night, at any rate. Let it alone, and have a finishing smoke! Go back to the Ostrogoths! Then, as he wondered whether, for all its slow combustion, the grate would not consume its coal before he got through his cigar, there came back to him an image of Judith Arkroyd in a dangerous form--an image in which physical beauty was subordinate to a subtle relationship of soul, which he had imperceptibly slipped into ascribing to his own and hers. A dangerous form, because Love played a new part in it for this man. His first wife had probably been--put it plainly--a mistake; his second ... well!--he was very fond of Marianne--very--and they had had many happy times together. But it wasn't quite the same thing as--oh, dear!--well, it couldn't be, you know! One can't have everything.