"I will give you a little lesson in frankness, my dear. When I married you I believed I was marrying a man of honor, unfortunately I was mistaken. It has not taken me long to discover that my husband is a common spy--attached to the detective office, probably, the sort of man who listens at keyholes and searches his wife's pockets when she is asleep. Don't forget, love, that it was you who commenced it. If I were a milksop I should sit down and weep, as some poor creatures do, but I am not a milksop; I can protect myself. Therefore, John. I am not going to make myself unhappy; I am much too sensible. I am not an old woman yet, and I intend to enjoy my life. And now, my dear," she added, after a moment's pause, "I am waiting for your next insult." "I am afraid it is useless to argue with you," I said, sadly. "Upon this subject, quite useless," she replied. "Upon any other I am your humble servant. Have you finished, then? Thank you. Annette!" The woman came in so promptly as to convince me that she had been listening in the passage. "She waited outside by my orders," said my wife, laughing. I left them together. CHAPTER IX. When I had left Barbara and Annette together, I took myself seriously to task. I asked myself whether I understood Barbara's character, and the answer seemed clear. I had not studied it; I did not understand it. She was a beautiful creature with whom I had fallen in love; it was surface love, and I had made no attempt to probe the inner life. In this respect I was no worse off than multitudes of men and women who marry without knowing each other. Was Barbara to blame for it? No. She was in a state of dependence upon a brother whose character I detested. I had offered myself and was accepted. For the fate in store for me I, and I alone, was to blame. I would be lenient towards her; I would devise some wise plan by which she could be wooed from the wrong path. After all, she was, perhaps, to be pitied. Thus did I argue, thus did I manufacture excuses for her, thus did I school myself into a calmer frame of mind. In this better mood I met her when Annette was not with her, and asked where she would dine. "Where you please," she answered, meekly. Her softened tone filled me with pity and remorse. "My wish is to please you," I said. She glanced at me in surprise. "Are you setting a trap for me?" she asked. "No, Barbara, only I have been thinking that we do not quite understand one another." "It seems so," she admitted, in a mournful voice, "and it is making me very unhappy." "Well, don't let it make you unhappy any longer. We both have faults, and we will try to correct them." "You dear boy!" she cried, throwing her arms round my neck. "Then you confess you were in the wrong?" "Yes, I confess it, Barbara." "And I confess that I was in the wrong. Now, we are equal." After a pause: "No one is quite perfect, John." "It is not within human limits, Barbara."