“Half-past four! I must be off, Marian. Don’t you find it dismal sitting there in the dark?” “You can dream in the dark.” “Dream?” he said, standing up and stretching his lanky limbs, stamping his heavy feet as though cold. “Don’t you dream too much, dear? I wish parish work had more interest for you; there is so much to do, and——” “I don’t do much!” she broke in sharply. “I wasn’t going to say that. Wouldn’t it make life brighter for you if you spent more time in brightening it for others? However, I mustn’t stop to talk now. There’s a meeting of the Boot Club at a quarter to five, and several things after that. I can’t get back till about half-past six: will that be too late for tea?” He stood beside her, feeling clumsily helpless to express his sympathy with her evident discontent, and unable to help her. “No, I don’t mind what time,” she answered, turning her back toward him, and looking out at the dreary prospect of leafless trees and dim gas lamps. He stooped to kiss her, but she pushed him away. “Don’t be silly, Edward; everyone can see into the room. If you don’t go, you’ll be late.” With a sigh he turned away and went out. For months past hatred of her home life had been growing in her, and it had been intensified, brought to fever heat, by her meeting with Maddison. His prosperity had emphasized the dunness of her own career. Why had he ever made love to her, giving her a glimpse of brightness, and then left her to be driven by circumstances to accept her husband’s dogged love, to accept this life of struggle, to accept this daily round of distasteful tasks and hateful duties? In the country days she had accepted without energy to protest against the routine work of a clergyman’s daughter; but here in London, her blood had caught afire, the devil of revolt was astir, her whole heart and soul rebelled against the wasting of her youth and beauty. In the old home there had been none with whom to compare herself; but in town hundreds of women, with smaller gifts of body and mind than her own, led a full and joyous life. She raged to think that she should bloom and fade, never knowing the glory of living. She rose slowly, let the heavy venetian blind run down with a crash, drew the curtains close, and lit the gas. She stood before the glass over the mantelpiece, looking at her reflection. Then with growing disgust she turned and glanced round the meager room. In a basket was a pile of accumulated mending waiting for her; on the small writing table—above which hung a crucifix—several account books, which would have to be made up this evening. She stood there, tall, fair, throbbing with rebellion, longing to escape. Again the question that she had so often asked herself during the last two days came to her: was it possible that George Maddison would offer to free her? He had nearly, if not quite, loved her once; were there any means by which she could lure him to her again?