"With my former quiet life, with present things, even, my sister being the wife of a poor curate, for one thing. But oh, don't be vexed, Beauchamp, I am very silly, I know. Forgive me. For the _thought_ of me, the wish to please me, I cannot thank you enough. That would have delighted me had the bracelet been the plainest in the world." Upon which, Beauchamp had turned from her angrily, with some muttered words about "sentimental nonsense and affectation," and Eugenia had had a sore fit of penitence for the inexcusable ingratitude which had thus wounded his sensitive spirit. And, after all, she did deserve some blame for unnecessarily irritating him in this instance. And thus, whether really the case or not, it always seemed to him in any of the discussions or disagreements which still, notwithstanding Eugenia's scrupulous care, occasionally arose between them. And no wonder that he thought so. It was always the same story. Eugenia annoyed him, probably in some very trivial matter, as to which, nevertheless, he felt bound to act up to his principle of "keeping a tight hand on her, letting her feel the reins." And invariably it ended in her taking all the blame on herself, exerting all her powers of logic (or sophistry) to convince herself that the fault lay with her alone. It was but rarely, very, very rarely, that she allowed her strong true sense of justice, of self-respect and womanly right, to break out from the restraint in which she had condemned it to dwell. And on such occasions, according to the invariable law of reaction, the unnatural repression avenged itself, and as had been the case in the carriage the night they came to Halswood, Eugenia's bitterness of indignation and fiery temper horrified herself, and did her infinite injustice with her husband. It was a bad state of things altogether--bad for Eugenia, worse, perhaps, for her husband, fostering his selfishness, increasing his narrow-minded self-opinionativeness. The day after the one on which it had occurred to Beauchamp that Eugenia's spirits were not what they had been, it happened that she got a letter from Sydney. It came in the morning, and as Captain Chancellor handed it to her, a joyful exclamation escaped her. "From Sydney! Oh, I am so glad! I have not heard from her for such a time." "What do you call `such a time,' I wonder?" said Captain Chancellor, good-humouredly. "A week, I suppose?" "No, longer than that," replied Eugenia. And then, encouraged by his tone, she added, "You know Sydney and I had hardly ever been separated before, and lately I have been particularly anxious to hear from home-- from Wareborough--on account of my father not having been well." "Your father ill! I never heard of it. I wonder you did not tell me," said her husband.