He had not deigned to greet his wife on entering, and his sullen expression, the yellow, bilious colour of his skin, the mottled puffiness about his eyes were the evidences of his rage the night before, as the retreating tide leaves uncovered the unsightly mud-flats. He had a bad taste in his mouth, both physically and morally; an uneasy feeling possessed him that his wife by her unbroken calm had got the better of him in their acrimonious discussion. She had called him "ludicrous," that was what galled him most. He was more than her match in opprobrium, in biting sarcasm, but before ridicule and a cool, unperturbed demeanour, he felt himself helpless. He cast about in his mind for a way to humble her, to pierce the joint of her new armour of indifference, and fate had brought a weapon to his hand, though he did not yet know it. Indeed, he had finished his meal and was lighting a cigar when he bethought him of a letter addressed to Ragna, which the postman had brought that morning. It was his habit to take the letters from the postman himself, or have them brought to his studio, where he opened them, his own and those addressed to his wife, alike. It was one of his numerous ways of keeping himself informed of all that went on. He prided himself on knowing everything that occurred, and was pleased, on occasions, to give his wife a proof of his ability, by recounting minutely all her doings, both indoors and out. He wished her to acknowledge his power over her, and he wished her, above all, to believe that nothing could be hidden from him. This system of constant espionage was one of Ragna's greatest trials, and despite her efforts to free herself from it, to keep the peace, she had been obliged to submit, tacitly, at least. She had never cared to inquire into her husband's sources of information, she would not give him so much satisfaction, she despised the ingenuity and acumen he displayed to such a despicable end. It really was a symptom of the man's craving for power; it gratified his pride to feel that he had a hold over others, that they should be at the mercy of his good pleasure and discretion. He believed that the one way to get on in the world was by using other people, and these either had to be bought, or captured. "Knowledge," he said to himself, "is power," and certainly, in the wire-pulling for which he afterwards became famous, he used the power his "knowledge" brought him, with an unsparing hand. Had he enjoyed a different education there is no telling to what heights he might have attained, but the early Jesuit influence, coupled with the weak indulgence of his mother, had endowed him, on the one hand, with a cynical unscrupulousness, and on the other with an unsatiable self-indulgence which sapped his better qualities at the fountain-head and warped his entire character to such an extent that his natural cleverness failed to redeem him from the narrowing distortion of his life.