d him to tell her things; and could, she mused, as
he talked, fancy the evenings of married life spent thus, over the fire;
spent thus, or with a book, perhaps, for then she would have time to
read her books, and to grasp firmly with every muscle of her unused mind
what she longed to know. The atmosphere was very free. Suddenly William
broke off. She looked up apprehensively, brushing aside these thoughts
with annoyance.

"Where should I address a letter to Cassandra?" he asked her. It was
obvious again that William had some meaning or other to-night, or was in
some mood. "We've struck up a friendship," he added.

"She's at home, I think," Katharine replied.

"They keep her too much at home," said William. "Why don't you ask her
to stay with you, and let her hear a little good music? I'll just finish
what I was saying, if you don't mind, because I'm particularly anxious
that she should hear to-morrow."

Katharine sank back in her chair, and Rodney took the paper on his
knees, and went on with his sentence. "Style, you know, is what we tend
to neglect--"; but he was far more conscious of Katharine's eye upon him
than of what he was saying about style. He knew that she was looking at
him, but whether with irritation or indifference he could not guess.

In truth, she had fallen sufficiently into his trap to feel
uncomfortably roused and disturbed and unable to proceed on the lines
laid down for herself. This indifferent, if not hostile, attitude
on William's part made it impossible to break off without animosity,
largely and completely. Infinitely preferable was Mary's state, she
thought, where there was a simple thing to do and one did it. In fact,
she could not help supposing that some littleness of nature had a part
in all the refinements, reserves, and subtleties of feeling for which
her friends and family were so distinguished. For example, although she
liked Cassandra well enough, her fantastic method of life struck her as
purely frivolous; now it was socialism, now it was silkworms, now it
was music--which last she supposed was the cause of William's sudden
interest in her. Never before had William wasted the minutes of her
presence in writing his letters. With a curious sense of light opening
where all, hitherto, had been opaque, it dawned upon her that, after
all, possibly, yes, probably, nay, certainly, the devotion which she had
almost wearily taken for granted existed in a much slighter degree than
she had