It is a grievous thing for a domestically inclined and affectionate woman to be rudely exhorted to feed on her own tissues; to discover that, as regards herself and the chosen one, affection is all on one side. With burning tears of mortification, Gabrielle realised that though Clovis was as cold as a corpse, she loved him. Perchance the unconscious fear engendered by contact with so unusual and unexpected a type, gave birth to a surprised fascination. She set him down as a very clever and extremely learned man, and, had he so willed it, would have worshipped at his shrine with the unreasoning satisfaction of those who are not mentally gifted. She would have whispered with arms about his neck, "Dear Clovis! I am not clever enough to rise to your level, but I believe all you say because you say it. So kiss me, for I am yours for all in all, and so delighted to be lovely and an heiress for your dear darling sake!" But how to coo forth such pretty prattle to a figure made of wood? How rest content with being coldly liked, when you are burning to be beloved? Scathing disappointment and disillusion! The beautiful and pampered Gabrielle, fortune's favoured child, moped and fretted, and was miserable. As years went on matters did not improve, for the unseen fingers of the naughty spirits were tearing the pair asunder. When she would fain have pouted out her lips to kiss, he stretched a surface of cheek that was aggressively passive. He was kind according to his lights--intended to be quite a model husband, but then wives and husbands differ as to the way that leads to perfection. Since there could be no sympathy between them, he interfered with her in no wise. A man often deems that negative condition of freedom the _summum bonum_; not so an affectionate woman. It is said that _mariages de convenance_ are in the long run the most satisfactory unions, because neither party expects anything, and whatever pleasure may casually arise from friendly intercourse is to the good, whereas love-matches are built upon the sand, made up of vague yearnings and unpractical desires. The inevitable discovery is reached with lamentable rapidity that dolls are stuffed with bran, and that in a sadly imperfect world "things are not what they seem." But if sympathy is nil--never existed at all--what flowers of joy can spring from utter barrenness? Clovis adored music, and could discourse prettily enough on the 'cello. Alack! Gabrielle had no ear, could not tell Glueck from Lulli; the droning of the 'cello set her nerves a tingling; and when the unappreciated player put down the bow to prate of animal magnetism, as expounded by the immortal Mesmer, his beautiful wife grew peevish. Oh, foolish Gabrielle! why could you not be affectionately deceitful since you loved the man. Is the better sex gifted for nothing with peculiar attributes? Why not have compelled yourself, with pardonable falsehood, to ask tenderly after the favourite 'cello, have begged to