At sound of her feeble voice, the marquis started guiltily and hung his head; and as he remained silent, his hand inert in hers, she proceeded slowly-- "It is not you who are to blame, dear. Occupied as your mind is, you are unable to conceive what to a loving woman are isolation and indifference. I teased and annoyed you with my jealousy; but then, as a girl, I was so pampered--steeped to the lips in love! Give me confidence and perfect trust and you shall be vexed no more. Obedient in all things, assuming no right to counsel or rebuke, I will be your faithful life-companion, the half of your very self!" Much more did she say in the same strain, without reproach, pleading for a modest place within his heart. Ah me! What a mockery are these earthly unions for better or worse till death do us part! The best are doomed to fling away their wealth of tenderness upon recipients who do not crave for it. Is it a punishment meted in subtle irony for the transgressions of a previous life? For half a lifetime we persist in lavishing our love upon a phantom, and, discovering by chance how evil is the wraith, lie down despairing. A fool's paradise would be a charming residence, were we not pretty certain, sooner or later, to be expelled from it with violence. On this tiny dust grain of the universe--let us hope it is not so in the more important worlds, wherein we hope to sojourn later--we batter our pates at a tender age against the stone wall of disillusion, become early familiar with broken promises. Fortunately, the sustaining angel Hope has more lives than a cat. Pummelled, stoned, and mangled beyond recognition, behold she sits up and rubs herself, charming well again.