"I wonder you are not ashamed to look me in the face. It was a device of two hearts entwined--yours and another woman's--and it was not a suitable device to offer to me, whom you had married but the day before!" (I thought with dismay that Annette must have sharp eyes to have seen it in that brief moment when she passed me, looking slyly on the ground.) "You are a clumsy liar, John. If you want to know, it was because I was maddened by your shameful conduct that I left you last night. I was sorry for it afterwards. I reasoned with myself, saying, He is my husband, and it is my duty to be by his side. That is why I was not sorry when you found me this morning. You may break my heart, but I will never leave you again, never, never! Now that I have found you out don't presume to lecture me again upon any little faults I may have--but keep your women out of my sight, my dear." I argued no longer; my heart was filled with bitterness; the smallest of my actions was turned against me with such ingenuity as to render me powerless. I will not dwell upon the incidents that enlivened the remaining weeks of this mockery of a honeymoon. Again and again did I find Barbara under the influence of drink, and again and again did I seek refuge in silence, for every word I spoke was twisted into an accusation against myself. We saw nothing of Maxwell, and after a month's tour Barbara declared she was tired of foreign countries and foreign people, and yearned to take her proper place in our dear little home in London. "Where you will discover," she said (she was in one of her amiable moods), "that I am a model wife, and a perfect treasure of a housekeeper." We were in London nearly two months before we settled in our new home, which, as I have stated, was situated in West Kensington. Immediately upon our return Barbara and I drove to the house, and took a tour of inspection through the rooms. It seemed to me that a few days would suffice for the necessary alterations and additions, but Barbara was of a different opinion. This piece of furniture did not suit her, that would not do, the other was altogether out of place. She did not like the paper on the walls, the ceilings were frightful, the patterns of the carpets horrible. Before our marriage we had come to London to see the house, and then she was satisfied with everything, now she is satisfied with nothing. If I ventured to make a remonstrance her reply was: "Do let me manage! What can you know about domestic affairs? Leave them to me; I will soon put things to rights." Seeing that her idea of putting things to rights would cost a large sum of money, I said: "Remember, Barbara, I am not a millionaire." "Perhaps not," she answered, "but you have thousands and thousands of pounds, you stingy fellow, and we must commence comfortably. Our whole happiness depends upon it. I sha'n't ruin you, my dear. Besides, are you not going to coin money out of your books?" "They have to be written first."