the happiest of men. He had taken a daring step,
but fortune smiled upon him, Monica was all he had imagined in his
love-fever; knowledge of her had as yet brought to light no single
untruth, not trait of character that he could condemn. That she
returned his love he would not and could not doubt. And something she
said to him one day, early in their honeymoon, filled up the measure of
his bliss.

'What a change you have made in my life, Edmund! How much I have to
thank you for!'

That was what he had hoped to hear. He had thought it himself; had
wondered whether Monica saw her position in this light. And when the
words actually fell from her lips he glowed with joy. This, to his
mind, was the perfect relation of wife to husband. She must look up to
him as her benefactor, her providence. It would have pleased him still
better if she had not possessed a penny of her own, but happily Monica
seemed never to give a thought to the sum at her disposal.

Surely he was the easiest of men to live with. When he first became
aware that Monica suffered an occasional discontent, it caused him
troublous surprise. As soon as he understood that she desired more
freedom of movement, he became anxious, suspicious irritable. Nothing
like a quarrel had yet taken place between them, but Widdowson began to
perceive that he must exert authority in a way he had imagined would
never be necessary. All his fears, after all, were not groundless.
Monica's undomestic life, and perhaps the association with those
Chelsea people, had left results upon her mind. By way of mild
discipline, he first of all suggested a closer attention to the affairs
of the house. Would it not be well if she spent an hour a day in sewing
or fancy work? Monica so far obeyed as to provide herself with some
plain needlework, but Widdowson, watching with keen eye, soon remarked
that her use of the needle was only a feint. He lay awake o' nights,
pondering darkly.

On the present evening he was more decidedly out of temper than ever
hitherto. He satisfied his hunger hurriedly and in silence. Then,
observing that Monica ate only a few morsels, he took offence at this.

'I'm afraid you are not well, dear. You have had no appetite for
several days.'

'As much as usual, I think,' she replied absently.

They went into the library, commonly their resort of an evening.
Widdowson possessed several hundred volumes of English literature, most
of them the works which are suppose