d infinities, and souls who died last night; of all of which no doubt
we shall have plenty in due season."

"All right, dear," answered Morris, with a fine access of forced
cheerfulness, "we will have some champagne for dinner and play picquet
after it."

"Champagne! What's the use of champagne when you only pretend to drink
it and fill up the glass with soda-water? Picquet! You hate it, and so
do I; and it is silly losing large sums of money to each other which we
never mean to pay. That isn't the real thing, there's no life in
that. Oh, Morris, if you love me, do cultivate some human error. It is
terrible to have a husband in whom there is nothing to reform."

"I will try, love," said Morris, earnestly.

"Yes," she replied, with a gloomy shake of the head, "but you won't
succeed. When Mrs. Roberts told me the other day that she was afraid her
husband was taking to drink because he went out walking too often with
that pretty widow from North Cove--the one with the black and gold
bonnet whom they say things about--I answered that I quite envied her,
and she didn't in the least understand what I meant. But I understand,
although I can't express myself."

"I give up the drink," said Morris; "it disagrees; but perhaps you might
introduce me to the widow. She seems rather attractive."

"I will," answered Mary, stamping her foot. "She's a horrid, vulgar
little thing; but I'll ask her to tea, or to stay, and anything, if she
can only make you look rather less disembodied."

That night the champagne appeared, and, feeling his wife's eyes upon
him, Morris swallowed two whole glasses, and in consequence was quite
cheerful, for he had eaten little--circumstances under which champagne
exhilarates--for a little while. Then they went into the drawing-room
and talked themselves into silence about nothing in particular,
after which Morris began to wander round the room and contemplate the
furniture as though he had never seen it before.

"What are you fidgeting about?" asked Mary. "Morris, you remind me of
somebody who wants to slip away to an assignation, which in your case is
absurd. I wish your father were back, I really do; I should be glad to
listen to his worst and longest story. It isn't often that I sit with
you, so it would be kinder if you didn't look so bored. I'm cross; I'm
going to bed. I hope you will spend a pleasant night in the chapel with
your thoughts and your instruments and the ghosts of the old Abbots. Bu