that night, or over a last solitary pipe outside the tent,
Nigel would be thinking, "By Jove, Ruby is a trump to put up with
Mohammed's messes after the food she's always been accustomed to!"
Whereas, before, he had been congratulating himself on having engaged at
a high rate the greatest treasure of a camp cook that could be found in
the whole of Egypt.

Perpetually, in a hundred ways, she brought to his memory the
extravagant luxury in which for so many years she had lived. Yet she
never seemed to be regretting, but always to be congratulating herself
on the fact, that she had abandoned it for a different, more Spartan way
of life. Often, in fact generally, she talked as if they were poor
people, as if she had married a quite poor man.

"I can't let you be reckless," she would say, when perhaps he suggested
something that would put them to extra expense. "It isn't as if we were
rich. I love spending money, but I should hate to run you into debt."

And if Nigel began to explain that he could perfectly well afford
whatever it was, she would gently, and gaily too, ignore or sweep away
his remarks with a "You forget how different your position is now that
your brother's got an heir." Once, however, he persisted, and made a
sort of statement of his affairs to her, his object being to prove to
her that they had "plenty to go on with." The result was scarcely what
he had anticipated. For a moment she seemed to be struck dumb with a
strong surprise. Then, apparently recovering herself, she said
decisively, "If that is all we've got, I am perfectly right to be
parsimonious. And besides, it's an excellent thing for me to have to
think about money. I've always been accustomed to spend far too much.
I've lived much too extravagantly, too brilliantly, all my life. A
change to simplicity and occasional self-denial will do me all the good
in the world, whether I like it at first or not."

And she smothered a sigh, and smiled at him with a sort of gentle
determination. But she never overacted her part, she never underlined
anything. Directly she saw that she had gained her end, had "got home,"
she passed on to a different topic. Never did she persistently play the
martyr. She knew how soon a man secretly gets sick of the martyr-wife.
But, in one way or another, she kept Nigel simmering in appreciation of
her.

And in contenting his soul she did not forget to content him in other
ways; she never allowed him to lose sight of the