The Victorian wife, who came second to her husband's profession, did not really suffer much; but the twentieth-century husband, who comes second to his wife's art, will probably suffer very much indeed, since a man's heart is composed of water-tight compartments, and a woman's is not. Therefore I did not fear (as I knew Annabel did) that all this acting would end in Fay's caring for some younger man more than she cared for me--not because I had a high opinion of myself, but because I had such a high opinion of Fay: what I did fear was that all this acting would end in Fay's caring more for the thing itself than she cared for me; and I knew that in the case of a really good woman a thing is a far more dangerous rival to her husband than a person, simply because such rivalry is without sin. The more I thought about Annabel's hint, and the more firmly I decided to take no notice of it, the deeper grew my conviction that my sister was right, though not quite in the way that she thought she was: and I gradually came to the conclusion that it was the love of acting in itself--and not any excitement incidentally connected with it--that was coming between myself and Fay. Moreover, behind this depressing conviction there lurked a horrible and as yet unformulated fear that even yet Fay might fulfil her original intention, and take to the stage as a profession. But on the other hand it went to my heart to contemplate the mere possibility of casting the slightest cloud on my darling's present happiness. How could I injure the thing that I so passionately loved? Surrounded by the youthful, not to say rowdy, atmosphere of Frank and the Loxleys, Fay bubbled over with jest and jollity, and was once more the high-spirited, laughter-loving fairy that she had been when I saw her first. It might be better for her in the long run, and it certainly would be much better for me, if this new and absorbing interest were nipped in the bud. Nevertheless I felt it was not in me to nip it as long as it made my darling so light of heart.