As compared with her Westmoreland life, the first twelve months of wifehood had been to Catherine Elsmere a time of rapid and changing experience. A few days out of their honeymoon had been spent at Oxford. It was a week before the opening of the October term, but many of the senior members of the University were already in residence, and the stagnation of the Long Vacation was over. Langham was up; so was Mr. Grey, and many another old friend of Robert’s. The bride and bridegroom were much fêted in a quiet way. They dined in many common rooms and bursaries; they were invited to many luncheons, where at the superabundance of food and the length of time spent upon it made the Puritan Catherine uncomfortable; and Langham, devoted himself to taking the wife through colleges and gardens, schools and Bodleian, in most orthodox fashion, indemnifying himself afterward for the sense of constraint her presence imposed upon him by a talk and a smoke with Robert. He could not understand the Elsmere marriage. That a creature so mobile, so sensitive, so susceptible as Elsmere should have fallen in love with this stately, silent woman, with her very evident rigidities of thought and training, was only another illustration of the mysteries of matrimony. He could not get on with her, and after a while did not try to do so. There could be no doubt as to Elsmere’s devotion. He was absorbed, wrapped up in her. ‘She has affected him,’ thought the tutor, ‘at a period of life when he is more struck by the difficulty of being morally strong than by the difficulty of being intellectually clear. The touch of religious genius in her braces him like the breath of an Alpine wind. One can see him expanding, growing under it. _Bien!_ sooner he than! To be fair, however, let me remember that she decidedly does not like me--which may cut me off from Elsmere. However’--and Langham sighed over his fire--‘what have he and I to do with one another in the future? By all the laws of character something untoward might come out of this marriage. But she will mould him, rather than he her. Besides, she will have children--and that solves most things.’ Meanwhile, if Langham dissected the bride as he dissected most people, Robert, with that keen observation which lay hidden somewhere under his careless boyish ways, noticed many points of change about his old friend. Langham seemed to him less human, more strange than ever; the points of contact between him and active life were lessening in number term by term. He lectured only so far as was absolutely necessary for the retention of his post, and he spoke with whole-sale distaste of his pupils. He had set up a book on ‘The Schools of Athens,’ but when Robert saw the piles of disconnected notes already accumulated, he perfectly understood that the book was a mere blind, a screen, behind which a difficult, fastidious nature trifled and procrastinated as it pleased.