high-spirited, in different ways; she was highly strung and so was
he--because of his past life mostly. They quarrelled badly sometimes.
Then he drank again and she stuck to him. Perhaps the only time he
seemed cheerful and affectionate was when he had a few drinks in him.
It was a miserable existence--a furnished room in a cheap lodging-house,
and the use of the kitchen.

"He drank alone.

"Now a dipsomaniac mostly thinks he is in the right--except, perhaps,
after he has been forced to be sober for a week. The noblest woman in
the world couldn't save him--everything she does to reform him irritates
him; but a strong friend can save him sometimes--a man who has been
through it himself. The poor little wife of Gentleman Once went through
it all. And she stuck to him. She went into low pubs after him."

Peter shuddered again. "She went through it all. He swore promises. He'd
come home sober and fill her with hope of future happiness, and swear
that he'd never take another glass. `And we'll be happy yet, my poor
boy,' she'd say, `we'll be happy yet. I believe you, I trust you' (she
used to call him her `bonny boy' when they were first married). And next
night he'd come home worse than ever. And one day he--he struck her!"

Peter shuddered, head and shoulders, like a man who had accidentally
smashed his finger.

"And one day he struck her. He was sober when he did it--anyhow he had
not taken drink for a week. A man is never sober who gets drunk more
than once a week, though he might think he is. I don't know how it
happened, but anyway he struck her, and that frightened him. He got a
billet in the Civil Service up-country. No matter in what town it was.
The little wife hoped for six months.

"I think it's a cruel thing that a carelessly selfish young man cannot
realize how a sensitive young wife suffers for months after he has
reformed. How she hopes and fears, how she dreads the moment he has to
leave her, and frets every hour he is away from home--and suffers mental
agony when he is late. How the horror of the wretched old past time
grows upon her until she dares not think of it. How she listens to his
step and voice and watches his face, when he comes home, for a sign of
drink. A young man, a mate of mine, who drank hard and reformed, used to
take a delight in pretending for a few minutes to be drunk when he came
home. He was good-hearted, but dense. He said he only did it to give his
wife a pleasant surprise after