passable woman who came
across his path. My temper grew like touch-wood; the least spark would
set it in a blaze. I could not take such things in good part.

We had been at daggers-drawn for a day or two, he and I, when one
morning I was astonished by the appearance of Julia in our
consulting-room, soon after my father, having dressed himself
elaborately, had quitted the house. Julia's face was ominous, the upper
lip very straight, and a frown upon her brow. I wondered what could be
the matter, but I held my tongue. My knowledge of Julia was intimate
enough for me to hit upon the right moment for speech or silence--a rare
advantage. It was the time to refrain from speaking. Julia was no
termagant--simply a woman who had had her own way all her life, and was
so sure it was the best way that she could not understand why other
people should wish to have theirs.

"Martin," she began in a low key, but one that might run up to
shrillness if advisable, "I am come to tell you something that fills me
with shame and anger. I do not know how to contain myself. I could never
have believed that I could have been so blind and foolish. But it seems
as if I were doomed to be deceived and disappointed on every hand--I who
would not deceive or disappoint anybody in the world. I declare it makes
me quite ill to think of it. Just look at my hands, how they tremble."

"Your nervous system is out of order," I remarked.

"It is the world that is out of order," she said, petulantly; "I am well
enough. Oh, I do not know how ever I am to tell you. There are some
things it is a shame to speak of."

"Must you speak of them?" I asked.

"Yes; you must know, you will have to know all, sooner or later. If
there was any hope of it coming to nothing, I should try to spare you
this; but they are both so bent upon disgracing themselves, so deaf to
reason! If my poor, dear aunt knew of it, she could not rest in her
grave. Martin, cannot you guess? Are men born so dull that they cannot
see what is going on under their own eyes?"

"I have not the least idea of what you are driving at," I answered. "Sit
down, my dear Julia, and calm yourself. Shall I give you a glass of
wine?"

"No, no," she said, with a gesture of impatience. "How long is it since
my poor, dear aunt died?"

"You know as well as I do," I replied, wondering that she should touch
the wound so roughly. "Three months next Sunday."

"And Dr. Dobree," she said, in a bitter accent--then