“Why, it seems a pity,” whispered Basil, dispassionately, “to turn this man adrift, when he had a reasonable hope of being with us all day, and has been so civil and obliging.” “O yes, Basil, sentimentalize him, do! Why don't you sentimentalize his helpless, overworked horse?--all in a reek of perspiration.” “Perspiration! Why, my dear, it's the rain!” “Well, rain or shine, darling, I don't want to go round the mountain with one horse; and it's very unkind of you to insist now, when you've tacitly promised me all along to take two.” “Now, this is a little too much, Isabel. You know we never mentioned the matter till this moment.” “It's the same as a promise, your not saying you wouldn't. But I don't ask you to keep your word. I don't want to go round the mountain. I'd much rather go to the hotel. I'm tired.” “Very well, then, Isabel, I'll leave you at the hotel.” In a moment it had come, the first serious dispute of their wedded life. It had come as all such calamities come, from nothing, and it was on them in full disaster ere they knew. Such a very little while ago, there in the convent garden, their lives had been drawn closer in sympathy than ever before; and now that blessed time seemed ages since, and they were further asunder than those who have never been friends. “I thought,” bitterly mused Isabel, “that he would have done anything for me.” “Who could have dreamed that a woman of her sense would be so unreasonable,” he wondered. Both had tempers, as I know my dearest reader has (if a lady), and neither would yield; and so, presently, they could hardly tell how, for they were aghast at it all, Isabel was alone in her room amidst the ruins of her life, and Basil alone in the one-horse carriage, trying to drive away from the wreck of his happiness. All was over; the dream was past; the charm was broken. The sweetness of their love was turned to gall; whatever had pleased them in their loving moods was loathsome now, and the things they had praised a moment before were hateful. In that baleful light, which seemed to dwell upon all they ever said or did in mutual enjoyment, how poor and stupid and empty looked their wedding-journey! Basil spent five minutes in arraigning his wife and convicting her of every folly and fault. His soul was in a whirl, “For to be wroth with one we love Doth work like madness in the brain.”