“One new and very disagreeable feature in my existence, which I had partly prepared myself for, is the fear of detection. We sailed before our flight had become public; and as there was fortunately no one on board who knew us, I had a nine days’ respite, and could fearlessly approach the other women, who, I suppose, would not have spoken to me had they known the truth. But here it is different. Ned’s patents are so much more extensively worked here than in England, and the people are so go-ahead, that they take a great interest in him, and are proud of him as an American. The news got into the papers a few days after we arrived. To appreciate the full significance of this, you should know what American newspapers are. One of them actually printed a long account of my going away, with every paragraph headed in large print, ‘Domestic Unhappiness,’ ‘The Serpent in the Laboratory,’ ‘The Temptation,’ ‘The Flight,’ ‘The Pursuit,’ and so on, all invented, of course. Other papers give the most outrageous anecdotes. Old jokes are revived and ascribed to us. I am accused of tearing his hair out, and he of coming home late at nights drunk. Two portraits of ferocious old women supposed to be Ned’s mother-in-law have been published. The latest version appeared in a Sunday paper, and is quite popular in this hotel. According to it, Ned was in the habit of ‘devoting me to science’ by trying electrical experiments on me. ‘This,’ the account says, ‘was kind of rough on the poor woman.’ The day before I ‘scooted,’ a new machine appeared before the house, drawn by six horses. ‘What are them men foolin’ round with, Mr. C.?’ said I. ‘That’s hubby’s latest,’ replied Ned. ‘I guess it’s the boss electro-dynamic fixin’ in the universe. Full charge that battery with a pint of washing soda, an’ youll fetch up a current fit to ravage a cont’nent. You shall have a try t’morro’ mornin’, Sal. Youre better seasoned to it than most Britishers; but if it dont straighten your hair and lift the sparks outer your eyelashes—!’ ‘You bet it wont, Mr. C.,’ said I. That night (this is only what the paper says, mind) I stole out of bed; arranged the wires on each side of Ned so that if he stirred an inch he would make contact; charged the battery; and gently woke him, saying, ‘Mr. C, love, dont stir for your life. Them things that’s ticklin’ your whiskers is the conductors of that boss fixin’ o’ yourn. If I was you, I’d lie still until the battery runs down.’ ‘Darn it all,’ said Ned, afraid to lift his lips for a shout, and coming out in cold water all over the forehead, ‘it wont run down for a week clear.’ ‘That’ll answer me nicely,’ I replied. ‘Good-bye, Mr. C. Young Douglas from the corner grocery is waitin’ for me with a shay down the avenue.’ I cannot help laughing at these things, but they drive Sholto frantic. He is always described in them as a young man from some shop or other. He tries hard, out of delicacy, to keep the papers which contain them away from