had come upon his feelings. Now that he was responsible for these peculiarities, they became alarming to him; he saw them with the eyes of other people, of his mother, his sister, of Durant even, who would wonder and be horrified to see Arthur’s wife so conducting herself. She was no longer Nancy Bates, the girl for whom he was willing to risk the world--but a part of himself, in whom his own character, his own very being, was involved. This made the strangest difference in everything. He had already felt it beginning for some time, but it was in full force from the moment which changed the tax-collector’s daughter into his wife. Thus he had felt, not amused, but irritated, when she made her appearance in that salmon-coloured “silk.” That Mrs. Bates’s daughter should wear the one fine and glistening garment she possessed to do honour to her bridegroom, and to dazzle the eyes of all beholders on her wedding-day, would there not have been in this a certain appropriateness in the midst of the inappropriateness, a _sancta simplicitas_ which would have charmed him? But it became all at once much more apparent to Arthur that his wife ought to know better than to set out on a journey in a pink silk gown; though when he tried by all manner of deceptive arguments to beguile her into the choice of a more suitable dress, representing that the dark blue serge or dark brown merino in the shops would be warmer, more easy and comfortable, less liable to be spoiled, and every other false yet true reason for preferring it that he could think of, Nancy remained unconvinced. “You shan’t make a dowdy of me, Arthur, I can tell you,” she said. “I didn’t get married to go about the world in these poor sort of clothes, like a dressmaker’s girl; and to France, where everybody dresses so well!” This was during the two or three days they stayed in London on purpose, if the truth had been told, to get a suitable outfit for her; but only Arthur, not Nancy, was aware of this true motive for the delay. “My dear girl, if they dress well it is by having suitable dresses for everything, not by being fine,” said Arthur, driven to his wit’s end. “Fine! you mean that I am dressed up,” cried Nancy, her colour rising, “and that is hard, for it was all done to please you; I thought you would like to see me fine. I never used to mind what clothes I wore; but I--and mamma too--tried to make as good a show as ever we could, for your sake!” What could Arthur do but protest that he loved her more, if that were possible, for the pains she had taken to please him, and thought the salmon-coloured dress lovely; but after a while he returned to the charge. “In France,” he said with the air of an authority, “they are great on having a dress for every different occasion. Their dresses for the morning they never wear in the evening, and their travelling dresses--”