John did not answer at once but looked at her as though he did not see her, took up a paper and glanced absently over the columns of advertisements. "Oh no," he said at last, as though her question had annoyed him. "There is nothing wrong, nothing whatever." Again a silence followed. Mrs. Darche went to her writing-table and began to write a note. John did not move. "Marion," said he at last, "has any one been talking to you about my affairs?" "No indeed," answered Mrs. Darche in evident surprise at the question, but with such ready frankness that he could not doubt her. "No," he repeated. "I see that no one has. I only asked because people are always so ready to talk about what they cannot understand, and are generally so perfectly certain about what they do not know. I thought Dolly Maylands might have been chattering." "Dolly does not talk about you, John." "Oh! I wonder why not. Does she dislike me especially--I mean more than most people--more than you do, for instance?" "John!" "My dear, do not imagine that it grieves me, though it certainly does not make life more agreeable to be disliked. On the whole, I hardly know which I prefer--my father's perpetual outspoken praise, or your dutiful and wifely hatred." "Why do you talk like that?" Mrs. Darche did not leave her writing-table, but turned in her chair and faced him, still holding her pen. "I fancy there is some truth in what I say," he answered calmly. "Of course you know that you made a mistake when you married me. You were never in love with me--and you did not marry me for my money." He laughed rather harshly. "No, I did not marry you for your money." "Of course not. You have some of your own--enough--" "And to spare, if you needed it, John." "You are very kind, my dear," replied Darche with a scarcely perceptible touch of contempt in his tone. "I shall survive without borrowing money of my wife." "I hope you may never need to borrow of any one," said Marion. She turned to the table again and began arranging a few scattered notes and papers to conceal her annoyance at his tone, hoping that her inoffensive answer might soon have the effect of sending him away, as was usually the case. But Darche was not quite in his ordinary state. He was tired, irritable, and greedy for opposition, as men are whose nerves are overwrought and who do not realise the fact, because they are not used to it, and it is altogether new to them. "I am tired of 'yea, yea.' Change the conversation, please, and say 'nay, nay.' It would make a little variety." "Do you object to my agreeing with you? I am sorry. It is not always easy to guess what you would like. I am quite ready to give up trying, if you say so. We can easily arrange our lives differently, if you prefer it." "How do you mean?" "We might separate, for instance," suggested Mrs. Darche.