cent,
while lukewarm affection and paltry motives of convenience were
elevating and noble.

Poor Mary! James knew that she loved him with all her soul, such as it
was (a delicate conscience and a collection of principles are not
enough to make a great lover), and again he acknowledged to himself that
he could give her only friendship. It had been but an ephemeral
tenderness which drew him to her for the second time, due to weakness of
body and to gratitude. If he ever thought it was love, he knew by now
that he had been mistaken. Still, what did it matter? He supposed they
would get along very well--as well as most people; better even than if
they adored one another; for passion is not conducive to an even life.
Fortunately she was cold and reserved, little given to demonstrative
affection; she made few demands upon him, and occupied with her work in
the parish and the collection of her trousseau, was content that he
should remain with his books.

The day fixed upon for the marriage came nearer.

But at last James was seized with a wild revolt. His father was sitting
by him.

"Mary's wedding-dress is nearly ready," he said, suddenly.

"So soon?" cried James, his heart sinking.

"She's afraid that something may happen at the last moment, and it won't
be finished in time."

"What could happen?"

"Oh, I mean something at the dressmaker's!"

"Is that all? I imagine there's little danger."

There was a pause, broken again by the Colonel.

"I'm so glad you're going to be happily married, Jamie."

His son did not answer.

"But man is never satisfied. I used to think that when I got you
spliced, I should have nothing else to wish for; but now I'm beginning
to want little grandsons to rock upon my knees."

Jamie's face grew dark.

"We should never be able to afford children."

"But they come if one wants them or not, and I shall be able to increase
your allowance a little, you know. I don't want you to go short of
anything."

James said nothing, but he thought: "If I had children by her, I should
hate them." And then with sudden dismay, losing all the artificial
indifference of the last week, he rebelled passionately against his
fate. "Oh, I hate and loathe her!"

He felt he could no longer continue the pretence he had been making--for
it was all pretence. The effort to be loving and affectionate was
torture, so that all his nerves seemed to vibrate with exasperation.
Sometimes he had to clench his hands