she constantly lamented to herself: 'Oh, why didn't
he die before she was married!'--in which case Amy would never have
dreamt of wedding a penniless author. Amy declined to discuss the new
aspect of things until twenty-four hours after John's return; then she
said:

'I shall do nothing whatever until the money is paid to me. And what I
shall do then I don't know.'

'You are sure to hear from Edwin,' opined Mrs Yule.

'I think not. He isn't the kind of man to behave in that way.'

'Then I suppose you are bound to take the first step?'

'That I shall never do.'

She said so, but the sudden happiness of finding herself wealthy was
not without its softening effect on Amy's feelings. Generous impulses
alternated with moods of discontent. The thought of her husband in his
squalid lodgings tempted her to forget injuries and disillusions, and to
play the part of a generous wife. It would be possible now for them to
go abroad and spend a year or two in healthful travel; the result in
Reardon's case might be wonderful. He might recover all the energy of
his imagination, and resume his literary career from the point he had
reached at the time of his marriage.

On the other hand, was it not more likely that he would lapse into a
life of scholarly self-indulgence, such as he had often told her was
his ideal? In that event, what tedium and regret lay before her! Ten
thousand pounds sounded well, but what did it represent in reality? A
poor four hundred a year, perhaps; mere decency of obscure existence,
unless her husband could glorify it by winning fame. If he did nothing,
she would be the wife of a man who had failed in literature. She would
not be able to take a place in society. Life would be supported without
struggle; nothing more to be hoped.

This view of the future possessed her strongly when, on the second day,
she went to communicate her news to Mrs Carter. This amiable lady had
now become what she always desired to be, Amy's intimate friend; they
saw each other very frequently, and conversed of most things with much
frankness. It was between eleven and twelve in the morning when Amy paid
her visit, and she found Mrs Carter on the point of going out.

'I was coming to see you,' cried Edith. 'Why haven't you let me know of
what has happened?'

'You have heard, I suppose?'

'Albert heard from your brother.'

'I supposed he would. And I haven't felt in the mood for talking about
it, even with you.'

They wen