"About the most foolish thing you could do. Wine is good for a man. Everything is good in moderation." "I agree with you--in moderation." "I said in moderation--the word is mine, not yours. You will alter your mind soon." "Never," I said. "It would be common politeness to ask if I would have some." "Will you, Barbara?" "No," she replied vehemently, "you know I hate it." The next morning we were comfortably seated in the train for Geneva. Annette was knitting, I was looking through some English papers and magazines I had obtained at Brentano's, and Barbara was reading a French novel she had purchased at the railway stall. She appeared to be so deeply interested in it that I asked her what it was. She handed it to me. I started as I looked at the title. "L'Assoimmoir!" I handed it back to her, thinking it strange she should have selected the work, but drawing from it a happy augury, for there is no story in which the revolting effects of drink are portrayed with greater coarseness and power. It did not occur to me that I should have been sorry to see such a work in the hands of a pure-minded woman, and that the absence of the reflection was a wrong done to a woman who was but newly married--and that woman my own wife! My thought was: What effect will the story have upon Barbara? Will it show her in an impressive and personal way the awful depths of degradation to which drink can bring its victims, and will it be a warning to her? "Have you read it?" she asked. "Yes," I answered. "It is a terrible story; it teaches a terrible lesson." "I have heard so," she said, "and I was quite anxious to read it myself. It opens brightly." "Wait till you come to the end," I thought. She went on with the reading, and was so engrossed in the development of the sordid, wretched tragedy that she paid but little attention to the scenery through which we were passing. I did not interrupt her. "Let it sink into her soul," I thought. "God grant that it may appall and terrify her!" In the afternoon the book was finished. But she was loth to lay it aside. She read the last few pages, and referred to others which presumably had produced an impression upon her. Then she put the book down. I looked at her inquiringly. "You are right," she said. "It does indeed teach a terrible lesson." I did not pursue the subject. If the effect I hoped for had not been produced no words of mine would bring it about. A fellow passenger engaged me in conversation, and we stood upon the landing stage awhile. When I returned to the carriage I detected that Barbara had been tippling; the signs were unmistakable. Later in the day she made reference to the story and expressed sympathy for the victims of the awful vice. "Is that your only feeling respecting the story?" I asked. "What other feeling can I have?" she replied, sorrowfully. "It was born in them. Poor Gervaise! Poor Coupeau! I don't know which I pity most." "And the terrible lesson, Barbara?"