The reflection was a wholesome one, and its influence softening, and Beauchamp had been very kind since her illness. He might not understand her, but at times she felt it was certainly going too far to say that he no longer cared for her. He seemed to have already quite forgotten all about this last discussion, and in truth the impression it had made upon him had been by no means a deep one. "It was all a fit of temper of Eugenia's," he said to himself, and as one of his fixed ideas was that such a thing as a woman without a temper had never existed, he resigned himself to his fate, with the hope that his share of this unavoidable drawback to the charms of married life might be small. Up to the last Captain Chancellor hoped that his wife would be able to accompany him to Marshlands. To do him justice, he was very reluctant to go without her. "It is such a pity," he said. "It would be just what I should like, for you to see a good deal of Lady Hereward. It isn't every one that she takes to, I can tell you." "I like her in herself," said Eugenia; "the only thing I dislike her for is that she is Lady Hereward. I got tired of her name before I had ever seen her." The moment she had said this she regretted it. Beauchamp's brow clouded over. "Of course," he replied, coldly, "if you set yourself against her I can't help it. Perhaps the best plan would be for me to write making an excuse for us both, and have done with the acquaintance. I am sick of discussions about everything I propose." It was hard upon her; it was so seldom, so very seldom she had opposed him in anything, or even expressed an opinion. "I am very sorry I cannot go," she said, "but your giving up going is not to be thought of. There is no reason for it. I am not seriously ill. There is nothing wrong with me but what a few days' rest will set right." This was true. So Captain Chancellor set off for Marshlands alone, and Eugenia, solitary and suffering, spent in her own room the week she had so eagerly anticipated.