"She provokes me to do and to say childish things," Helen continued, "just to shock her. I told her bluntly the other day that I had been telling a falsehood, and she had the impertinence to look shocked. I am not sure that I did not go so far as to say I 'lied,' a word that hardly holds the place in English that it did in the good days of Mrs. Opie. She would have been reconciled if I had said I told what I hoped was true." "I should have told her," laughed Dr. Ashton, "that I only used truth as the Egyptians used straw in bricks, the smallest possible quantity that will hold the rest together." "I cannot see why Arthur married her," Helen said musingly. "Oh, as to that, an idle man will fall in love with any pretty woman who will snub him." "But Arthur isn't idle, and she doesn't snub him." "Very well; he married her because he fell in love for no reason but the weakness of our sex." "Love seems generally to be regarded by the masculine mind in the light of a weakness." "Isn't it?" her husband returned. "Love is the condition of desiring the impossible, and if that is not a weakness, what becomes of logic?" "I am tired of logic," she said, rising abruptly. "I am tired of every thing. Let us have supper. I want a glass of wine. I am sure I tried to be kind to Mrs. Fenton. I would have helped her if I could; but how could I assist her unless she chose to let me, and that, too, knowing who I am." "I never knew you to be other than kind," was the grave reply, which brought to Helen's cheek a faint flush of pleasure. The servant came in with supper, and the slender glasses were filled with Rhine wine. "I could not help thinking," Dr. Ashton said, lifting his glass,--"I drink to your very good health, my dear--I could not help thinking of my wedding gift to Arthur, that he asked me for it, I mean." "I thought of it, too, when his wife told me the story. It is well she does not know that of you." "Oh, it wouldn't matter," he said carelessly. "She couldn't feel a greater horror of me than she does already. Do you see the mark of Cain on my forehead, Helen?" "Isn't it droll," she returned, with a smile half pensive, half humorous, "to feel ourselves suddenly tried by new standards and found so wanting. I am not sure but dramatic propriety demands that I should poison Mrs. Fenton. I have that vial, you know." "Did you notice the inscription on the vial?" "No; is there one?" "See for yourself," he answered, refilling his glass.