If Cecil was a lonely wife, she was at least not a neglected or forgotten one. All things that can contribute to a woman's happiness--when considered from a prosaic and common-sense point of view--were freely furnished by Laurence O'Boyneville for the woman he had wooed so boldly and won so easily. A dainty little brougham, and a stout strong-built steed, had been provided for the barrister's wife. She had a coachman renowned for his sobriety, and she had no occasion to suffer the ignominy of opening her carriage-door, or the martyrdom involved in the dangerous attentions of street-boys; for the inestimable Pupkin accompanied her in her drives, and marshalled her solemnly to her chariot after her calls or shopping. She had unlimited supplies of new music, and first-class subscriptions at more than one library. She had _carte blanche_ at Howell and James's, and had she chosen to be extravagant, might have indulged her folly to the uttermost. She had a well-appointed although somewhat dingily-furnished house, and servants who gave her very little trouble; and if amidst all this substantial commonplace comfort the sympathetic hand and the congenial companionship which make the lives of some few women happy were wanting, she had surely little right to complain. That perfect circle which is the emblem of eternity is not to be found embodied upon earth, and there is always some missing link in the golden chain of sublunary bliss. When all the brightness of summer had vanished before the pelting rains and dull leaden skies of a stormy October, the barrister returned to his wife and his London engagements. She was really glad to welcome him back; even though he did seem a little bigger and louder, and more overpowering altogether, now that she had been separated from him for some months. Business of a special nature had kept him away from home after his circuit-work had been finished, and it was not till the middle of October that he was free to return. He came back to the old round of perpetual labour, and his work in the ensuing term threatened to be even heavier than usual; but he had time to see that his wife was looking pale and ill, and the discovery grieved and distressed him. "I did wrong in letting you have your own way, Cecil," he said; "this autumn in London has done you harm. You are looking pale and ill. If you'll tell Pupkin to put a couple of shirts in my portmanteau, I'll take you down to Brighton to-morrow afternoon by the five o'clock express."