s, shall we have the strength to conquer outside
things and be really "one eternally"?

Alathea must have been looking at this not an hour or more ago, what did
it make her think of, I wonder?

I determined to ask her to read the whole poem presently, when we should
be sitting together in the afternoon.

It had come on to rain and was a wretched dismal day, I wondered why
Alathea had gone out. Probably she is as restless as I am, and being
free to move, she can express her mood in rapid walking!

I began to plan my course of action.

To go on disturbing her as much as possible--

To give her the impression that I once thought her perfection, but that
she herself has disillusioned me, and that I am indifferent to her now.

That I am cynical, but am amused to discuss love in the abstract.

That I have friends who divert me, and that I really only want her to be
a secretary and companion, and that any interest I may show in her is
merely for my own vanity, because she is, to the world, my wife!

If I can only keep this up, and not soften should I see her distressed,
and not weaken or give the show away, I must inevitably win the game,
perhaps sooner than I dare hope!

I felt glad she had not been there, so that I could pull myself
together, and put my armour on, so to speak, before we met.

I heard her come in just before luncheon and go to her room, and then
she came on to the sitting-room without her hat.

Her taste is as good as Coralie's, probably her new clothes come from
the same place, she appeared adorable, and now that I can observe her at
leisure, she seems extremely young,--the childish outline, and the
perfect curve of the little cheek! She does not look over eighteen years
old, in spite of the firm mouth and serene manner.

I had the poems in my hand.

"I see you have been reading these," I remarked after we had given each
other a cold good-morning.

The pupils of her eyes contracted for a second, she was annoyed with
herself that she had left the paper cutter in the book.

"Yes."

"After lunch will you read to me?"

"Of course."

"You like poetry?"

"Yes, some."

"This kind?"

Her cheeks became softly pink.

"Yes, I do. I daresay I should have more classical tastes, but these
seem real, these poems, as if the author had meant and felt what she was
writing about. I am no judge of poetry in the abstract, I only like it
if it expresses some truth, and some thought--which appeals to