“She married, that’s all. They all do it. But Phœbe--my friend--complicated matters by marrying a man who was unworthy of her, though I am bound to say she was in love with him at the time she married him--or thought she was.” “If she thought so, she probably was,” came from behind the easel. “You think that proves it? Well, ‘there is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so,’ as Hamlet says. However, poor Phœbe Elles never knew what it was to be happy with the man she had chosen, though she had a vague idea that there was happiness somewhere in the world for her, as all we poor deluded fools of women have. There was nothing to make her happy, her life was starved, maimed, stunted--no colour in it at all. He had been married before, and the house was full of--what shall I call them?--obstacles to sentiment, in the shape of stepsons, and awful aunts---- ” “How many aunts?” “Only one, perhaps, but a horror, a perfectly awful woman! I shall never forget what I---- ” She recovered herself and went on. “He--her husband was not unkind to her--not cruel, oh no, he took good care of that! but he contrived to make himself generally odious to her, and was antagonistic in every possible way---- ” “Poor man!” ejaculated Rivers, in rather an incomprehensible manner. “Then,” Mrs. Elles went on, complacently, warming to her subject, “there came a final scene--such a sordid affair too, but it brought matters to a head. He sent away all her servants at an hour’s notice, on the very flimsiest of pretexts, and when she ventured, very naturally, to expostulate, he turned round on her and insulted her grossly. He told her that he had never loved her, but had only married her out of pity, because she had so obviously set her affections on him; and that now, when she had entirely lost her looks and her youth---- ” “The man must have been an utter cad.” “Yes, wasn’t he!” exclaimed, Mrs. Elles, delighted with his concurrence. “I was sure you would say so. And then he abused her and called her names--I am sure you could never bring yourself to use such words as he used to Phœbe, to your wife!” She snatched a fearful joy in the use of this phrase. “No, I suppose not,” said Rivers, who, for some reason or other, did not seem inclined to treat this story very seriously. “No, I suppose not, unless she aggravated me beyond endurance. Then there is no knowing what I might not say.” “Oh, yes, I quite understand, if she was a nagging woman--but poor Phœbe--I know her so well--is incapable of anything of the sort. She is too gentle ever to make a fuss--and too dignified, besides. She behaved simply like an angel all through--a perfect martyr--she hardly said a word, but---- ” “But what?” “She did the only thing that was left her to do. She left him.” “I call that rather a strong measure!” “Oh, but alone! She did not leave him to go to another man!”