“Don’t speak about that. At any rate I understand him better than any other woman—or man for that matter. And though it wasn’t to be, I understand him still; and I know he’s out for big things sooner or later. He’ll make a mark in the world of labour some day.” Daisy looked with admiration at Medora. “I’m sure I shouldn’t know what to answer if he talked to me about such deep subjects,” she said. “But then you’re married, and you’ve always got a man in the house to help your brain power.” Medora, secretly nettled at the preposterous suggestion of Ned enlarging her mental outlook, turned to the blackberries and felt a helpless disappointment that even her friend should guess so little of her difficulties and troubles. For now she began day by day to weave round herself and her married life a hollow and false tissue of imaginary tribulations and trials supposed to be sprung from her union with Edward Dingle. Medora set about a sort of histrionics inspired by nothing but her own vague unrest and her own amazing ignorance of reality. Even to herself she could not explain this futile experiment in emotions, yet she persisted and presently, finding certain of her circle were deceived, and even hearing words of pity on a woman’s lips, she deluded herself as to the truth of her gathering misfortunes and assured her conscience that the disaster came from without and not within. For at first, in the perpetration of this stupid pose, conscience pricked before Ned’s puzzled eyes; but presently, when a silly woman told Medora that she was a martyr, this nonsense of her own brewing seemed indeed the bitter drink life had set to her lips. She echoed and amplified the notion of martyrdom. It was just what she wanted to excuse her own folly to herself. From accepting the idea, she soon began to credit it. To win the full flavour of the make-believe this was necessary. Then developed the spectacle of a masquerading woman, herself creating the atmosphere in which she desired her world to see her suffer and shine. As all who acquire a taste for martyrdom, Medora proved amazingly ingenious in plaiting the scourges and selecting the members of the inquisition from her own household. She had reached a preliminary stage in this weak-minded pastime and enjoyed it exceedingly. Ned was much mystified; but the attitude of Ned mattered little. Her real object and the goal of the game lay far beyond Ned. Whereunto all this would lead, Medora did not know; and she told herself that she did not care. The day was to add a considerable scene to her unfolding drama, though Mrs. Dingle did not guess it when she set out. She had no premonition of the interesting adventure that awaited her when presently she drifted, by hedgerows and lanes, somewhat westward of Ashprington, upon the high road to Totnes.