Peter had. Snuffing, of course, is a wasteful habit in any case, and a shaking hand misses the target more freely than a steady one; but, for all that, Peter, in his mental anguish, had consumed in one night the better part of his week’s supply of snuff. The box was indubitably empty. He had not come to replenish it without some conscientious qualms--an allowance is an allowance--but he felt that life which comprised Ada in her present mood and did not comprise snuff, was beyond bearing. Ada was, it seemed, inevitable: he must mitigate Ada. “The usual, if you please, Thomas,” he unusually said. “Yes, sir,” said Thomas, filling the box. “You’ve had a little accident?” “An accident? Oh!” Then the fitness of that guess struck him. “Yes, Thomas, a little accident. By the way, do you know anything about divorce?” “Well, sir, I read the _Sunday Judge,_” Thomas replied deprecatingly. “Very human subject, sir, divorce.” “You find it so?” “I take a lot of satisfaction in reading about my sinful fellow-creatures.” “Quite, quite,” said Peter vaguely, and went out of the shop, leaving a puzzled salesman behind him. “Forgot to pay, and all,” thought Thomas. “Not that I’d grudge it if he didn’t pay, only it’s not like him. He looks sadly to day. The old boy’s breaking up. Him and divorce! What does he want to worry his head about divorce for?” Peter did not know that he had mentioned divorce, to his tobacconist. It would have shocked him if he had known. He spoke unconsciously, and listened mechanically to the man’s reply, but he was, harrowingly, “worrying his head” about divorce. He took snuff in the street, an unheard-of occurrence, but it did not clear his aching brain of the fateful word “divorce.” Ada had put it there too firmly in her stupid and invincible malignity. She had one aim--to do Sam the greatest injury she could. His offence was rank, and she demanded a proportionate revenge.