s she had been forced to confess that her husband was more of
an egotist than she cared to think. He demanded of her no great
sacrifices--had he done so she would have found, in making them,
the pleasure that women of her nature always find in such
self-mortification--but he now and then intruded on her that disregard
for the feeling of others which was part of his character. He was fond
of her--almost too passionately fond, for her staider liking--but he was
unused to thwart his own will in anything, least of all in those seeming
trifles, for the consideration of which true selfishness bethinks
itself. Did she want to read when he wanted to walk, he good-humouredly
put aside her book, with an assumption that a walk with him must, of
necessity, be the most pleasing thing in the world. Did she want to
walk when he wanted to rest, he laughingly set up his laziness as an
all-sufficient plea for her remaining within doors. He was at no pains
to conceal his weariness when she read her favourite books to him. If
he felt sleepy when she sang or played, he slept without apology. If
she talked about a subject in which he took no interest, he turned the
conversation remorselessly. He would not have wittingly offended her,
but it seemed to him natural to yawn when he was weary, to sleep when
he was fatigued, and to talk only about those subjects which interested
him. Had anybody told him that he was selfish, he would have been
astonished. Thus it came about that Sylvia one day discovered that she
led two lives--one in the body, and one in the spirit--and that with
her spiritual existence her husband had no share. This discovery alarmed
her, but then she smiled at it. "As if Maurice could be expected to take
interest in all my silly fancies," said she; and, despite a harassing
thought that these same fancies were not foolish, but were the best and
brightest portion of her, she succeeded in overcoming her uneasiness.
"A man's thoughts are different from a woman's," she said; "he has his
business and his worldly cares, of which a woman knows nothing. I must
comfort him, and not worry him with my follies."

As for Maurice, he grew sometimes rather troubled in his mind. He could
not understand his wife. Her nature was an enigma to him; her mind was
a puzzle which would not be pieced together with the rectangular
correctness of ordinary life. He had known her from a child, had loved
her from a child, and had committed a mean and cruel cr