LONG before I married George I knew that he was dreadfully ambitious. We were not yet engaged when he took me into his confidence about his forthcoming great book, which was to take the form of an inquiry into the Metaphysics of Ethics. “I have not begun it yet,” he always said, “but I shall be at it every night once the winter sets in.” In the daytime George is only a clerk, though a much-valued one, so that he has to give the best hours of his life to a ledger. “If you only had more time at your disposal,” I used to say, when he told me of the book that was to make his name. “I don’t complain,” he said, heartily, like the true hero he always is, except when he has to take medicine. “Indeed, you will find that the great books have nearly always been written by busy men. I am firmly of opinion that if a man has original stuff in him it will come out.” He glowed with enthusiasm while he spoke in this inspiriting strain, and some of his ardor passed into me. When we met we talked of nothing but his future; at least he talked while I listened with clasped hands. It was thus that we became engaged. George was no ordinary lover. He did not waste his time telling me that I was beautiful, or saying “Beloved!” at short intervals. No, when we were alone he gave me his hand to hold, and spoke fervently of the Metaphysics of Ethics. Our engagement was not of a very long duration, for George coaxed me into marriage thus—“I cannot settle down to my book,” he said, “until we are married.” His heart was so set on that book that I yielded. We wandered all over London together buying the furniture. There was a settee that I particularly wanted, but George, with his usual thoughtfulness, said: “Let us rather buy a study table. It will help me at my work, and once the book is out we shall be able to afford half a dozen settees.” Another time he went alone to buy some pictures for the drawing-room. “I got a study chair instead,” he told me in the evening. “I knew you would not mind, my darling, for the chair is the very thing for writing a big book in.” He even gave thought to the ink-bottle. “In my room,” he said, “I am constantly discovering that my ink-bottle is empty, and it puts me out of temper to write with water and soot. I therefore think we ought to buy one of those large ink-stands with two bottles.” “We shall,” I replied, with the rapture of youth, “and mine will be the pleasant task of seeing that the bottles are kept full.” “Dearest!” he said, fondly, for this was the sort of remark that touched him most. “Every evening,” I continued, encouraged by his caressing tones, “you will find your manuscripts lying on the table waiting for you, and a pen with a new nib in it.” “What a wife you will make!” he exclaimed.