said, "for love, and for love only; and his bride was far
more than worthy of his love." When I thought of these expressions, on
the part of my friend, I confess that I felt indescribably puzzled.
Could it be possible that he was taking leave of his senses? What else
could I think? _He_, so refined, so intellectual, so fastidious, with so
exquisite a perception of the faulty, and so keen an appreciation of the
beautiful! To be sure, the lady seemed especially fond of
_him_--particularly so in his absence--when, she made herself ridiculous
by frequent quotations of what had been said by her "beloved husband,
Mr. Wyatt." The word "husband" seemed forever--to use one of her own
delicate expressions--forever "on the tip of her tongue." In the
meantime, it was observed by all on board, that he avoided _her_ in the
most pointed manner, and, for the most part, shut himself up alone in
his state-room, where, in fact, he might have been said to live
altogether, leaving his wife at full liberty to amuse herself as she
thought best, in the public society of the main cabin.

My conclusion, from what I saw and heard, was, that the artist, by some
unaccountable freak of fate, or perhaps in some fit of enthusiastic and
fanciful passion, had been induced to unite himself with a person
altogether beneath him, and that the natural result, entire and speedy
disgust, had ensued. I pitied him from the bottom of my heart--but could
not, for that reason, quite forgive his incommunicativeness in the
matter of the "Last Supper." For this I resolved to have my revenge.

One day he came upon deck, and, taking his arm as had been my wont, I
sauntered with him backward and forward. His gloom, however (which I
considered quite natural under the circumstances), seemed entirely
unabated. He said little, and that moodily, and with evident effort. I
ventured a jest or two, and he made a sickening attempt at a smile. Poor
fellow! as I thought of _his wife_, I wondered that he could have heart
to put on even the semblance of mirth. At last I ventured a home-thrust.
I determined to commence a series of covert insinuations, or innuendoes,
about the oblong box--just to let him perceive, gradually that I was
_not_ altogether the butt, or victim, of his little bit of pleasant
mystification. My first observation was by way of opening a masked
battery. I said something about the "peculiar shape of _that_ box;" and,
as I spoke the words, I smiled knowingly, wink