ld take all that for granted as though it were
gospel,--because her father had said so. And then it was to her a fact
that she was by no means good-looking,--the meaning of which was that no
other man would probably want her. Then she remembered her father's
words,--"To me your face is the sweetest thing on earth to look upon."
This she did believe. Her plainness did not come against her there. Why
should she rob her father of the one thing which to him was sweet in the
world? And to her, her father was the one noble human being whom she had
ever known. Why should she rob herself of his daily presence? Then she
told herself,--as she had told him,--that she had never had five minutes
free conversation with Mr. Barry in her life. That certainty was no
reason why free conversation should not be commenced. But then she did
not believe that free conversation was within the capacity of Mr. Barry.
It would never come, though she might be married to him for twenty
years. He too might, perhaps, talk about his business; but there would
be none of those considerations as to radical good or evil which made
the nucleus of all such conversations with her father. There would be a
flatness about it all which would make any such interchange of words
impossible. It would be as though she had been married to a log of wood,
or rather a beast of the field, as regarded all sentiment. How much
money would be coming to him? Now her father had never told her how much
money was coming to him. There had been no allusion to that branch of
the subject.

And then there came other thoughts as to that interior life which it
would be her destiny to lead with Mr. Barry. Then came a black cloud
upon her face as she sat thinking of it. "Never," at last she said,
"never, never! He is very foolish not to know that it is impossible."
The "he" of whom she then spoke was her father, and not Mr. Barry. "If I
have to be left alone, I shall not be the first. Others have been left
alone before me. I shall at any rate be left alone." Then the wall
became higher and more black than ever, and there was no coming of that
miracle by which it was to be removed. It was clearer to her than ever
that neither of them could climb it. "And, after all," she said to
herself, "to know that your husband is not a gentleman! Ought that not
to be enough? Of course a woman has to pay for her fastidiousness. Like
other luxuries, it is costly; but then, like other luxuries, it cannot
b