good
landlady's gloomy surmises, she certainly fell more and more a prey to
depression and anxieties, and occasionally even to suspicion, to all
of which evils she grew increasingly liable as she drew nearer to an
event that was no longer very distant. She could not but notice a
change in Philip's manner on the rare occasions when he was able to
visit her, of which the most marked developments were fits of silence
and irritability. A certain reticence also, that became more and more
noticeable as time went on, led her to feel that there was an
invisible something growing up between them--a something that the
pride she possessed in such a striking degree forbade her to attempt
to pierce, but which was none the less galling to her on that account.
Very shortly before the events narrated in the last chapter she had
taken the occasion of a visit from Philip to complain somewhat
bitterly of her position, begging him to tell her when there was any
prospect of her being allowed to take her rightful place--a question
her husband was quite unable to answer satisfactorily. Seeing that
there was nothing to be got out of him, with womanly tact she changed
the subject, and asked after Maria Lee (for whom she entertained a
genuine affection)--when he last saw her, how she was looking, if
there was any prospect of her getting married, and other questions of
the same sort--the result of which was to evoke a most violent, and to
her inexplicable, fit of irritability on the part of her husband.
Something of a scene ensued, which was finally terminated about five
o'clock in the afternoon by Philip's abrupt departure to catch his
train.

Shortly afterwards Mrs. Jacobs, coming up to bring some tea, found
Hilda indulging in tears that she had been too proud to shed before
her husband; and, having had an extended personal experience of such
matters, rightly guessed that there had been a conjugal tiff, the
blame of which, needless to say, she fixed upon the departed Philip.

"Lor, Mrs. Roberts" (as Hilda was called), she said, "don't take on
like that; they're all brutes, that's what they are; if only you could
have seen my Samuel, who's dead and gone these ten years and buried in
a private grave at Kensal Cemetery--though he didn't leave anything to
pay for it except three dozen and five of brandy--he was a beauty,
poor dear, he was; your husband ain't nothing to him."

"My husband, let me tell you, Mrs. Jacobs, is not a brute at all,"
so