Vincent Adney, who, though he was fifty years old, looked like a good little boy on whom it had been impressed that children should not talk before company, acquitted himself with remarkable simplicity and taste of the position of husband of a great exponent of comedy. When all was said about her making it easy for him, one couldn't help admiring the charmed affection with which he took everything for granted. It is difficult for a husband who is not on the stage, or at least in the theatre, to be graceful about a wife who is; but Adney was more than graceful--he was exquisite, he was inspired. He set his beloved to music; and you remember how genuine his music could be--the only English compositions I ever saw a foreigner take an interest in. His wife was in them, somewhere, always; they were like a free, rich translation of the impression she produced. She seemed, as one listened, to pass laughing, with loosened hair, across the scene. He had been only a little fiddler at her theatre, always in his place during the acts; but she had made him something rare and misunderstood. Their superiority had become a kind of partnership, and their happiness was a part of the happiness of their friends. Adney's one discomfort was that he couldn't write a play for his wife, and the only way he meddled with her affairs was by asking impossible people if _they_ couldn't. Lady Mellifont, after looking across at him a moment, remarked to me that she would rather not put any question to him. She added the next minute: "I had rather people shouldn't see I'm nervous." "_Are_ you nervous?" "I always become so if my husband is away from me for any time." "Do you imagine something has happened to him?" "Yes, always. Of course I'm used to it." "Do you mean his tumbling over precipices--that sort of thing?" "I don't know exactly what it is: it's the general sense that he'll never come back." She said so much and kept back so much that the only way to treat the condition she referred to seemed the jocular. "Surely he'll never forsake you!" I laughed. She looked at the ground a moment. "Oh, at bottom I'm easy." "Nothing can ever happen to a man so accomplished, so infallible, so armed at all points," I went on, encouragingly.