ar or two, she didn't want any society. I suppose a man who
studies much always runs the danger of neglecting his home affairs. But
it was her own wish that I should begin to work. She was incessantly
urging me to it. One of the inconsistencies of women, you see."

He laughed unmelodiously, and then there was a long silence. Miriam,
who watched him mechanically, though her eyes were not turned directly
upon him, saw that he seated himself on the writing-table, and began to
make idle marks with a pencil on the back of an envelope.

"Why didn't you go abroad with her?" she asked in a low voice.

"I would have gone, if it hadn't been quite clear that she preferred
not to have my company."

"Are you speaking the truth?"

"What do you mean, Miriam? She preferred to go alone; I know she did."

"But didn't you make the excuse to her that you couldn't leave your
work?"

"That's true also. Could I say plainly that I saw what she wished?"

"I think it very unlikely that you were right," Miriam rejoined in a
tone of indecision.

"What reason have you for saying that?"

"You ought to have a very good reason before you believe the contrary."

She waited for him to reply, but he had taken another piece of paper,
and seemed absorbed in covering it with a sort of pattern of his own
design.

"Right or wrong, what does it matter?" he exclaimed at length, flinging
the pencil away. "The event is the same, in any case. Does it depend on
myself how I act, or what I think? Do you believe still that we are
free agents, and responsible for our acts and thoughts?"

Miriam avoided his look, and said carelessly:

"I know nothing about it."

He gave a short laugh.

"Well, that's better and more honest than saying you believe what is
contrary to all human experience. Look back on your life. Has its
course been of your own shaping? Compare yourself of to-day with
yourself of four years ago; has the change come about by your own
agency? If you are _wrong_, are you to blame? Imagine some fanatic
seizing you by the arm, and shouting to you to beware of the precipice
to which you are advancing--"

He suited the action to the word, and grasped her wrist. Miriam shook
him off angrily.

"What do you know of _me_?" she exclaimed, with suppressed scorn.

"True. Just as little as you know of me, or any one person of any
other. However, I was speaking of what you know of yourself. I suppose
you can look back on one or two things in your