to bear longer.
She has conscientiously struggled against it, but to no purpose.
I cannot bear it--I cannot! I can't answer her arguments--she has
read ten times as much as I. Her intellect sparkles like diamonds,
while mine smoulders like brown paper... She's one too many for me!"

"She'll get over it, good-now?"

"Never! It is--but I won't go into it--there are reasons why she
never will. At last she calmly and firmly asked if she might leave
me and go to him. The climax came last night, when, owing to my
entering her room by accident, she jumped out of window--so strong
was her dread of me! She pretended it was a dream, but that was
to soothe me. Now when a woman jumps out of window without caring
whether she breaks her neck or no, she's not to be mistaken; and this
being the case I have come to a conclusion: that it is wrong to so
torture a fellow-creature any longer; and I won't be the inhuman
wretch to do it, cost what it may!"

"What--you'll let her go? And with her lover?"

"Whom with is her matter. I shall let her go; with him certainly,
if she wishes. I know I may be wrong--I know I can't logically,
or religiously, defend my concession to such a wish of hers, or
harmonize it with the doctrines I was brought up in. Only I know one
thing: something within me tells me I am doing wrong in refusing
her. I, like other men, profess to hold that if a husband gets such
a so-called preposterous request from his wife, the only course that
can possibly be regarded as right and proper and honourable in him is
to refuse it, and put her virtuously under lock and key, and murder
her lover perhaps. But is that essentially right, and proper, and
honourable, or is it contemptibly mean and selfish? I don't profess
to decide. I simply am going to act by instinct, and let principles
take care of themselves. If a person who has blindly walked into a
quagmire cries for help, I am inclined to give it, if possible."

"But--you see, there's the question of neighbours and society--what
will happen if everybody--"

"Oh, I am not going to be a philosopher any longer! I only see
what's under my eyes."

"Well--I don't agree with your instinct, Dick!" said Gillingham
gravely. "I am quite amazed, to tell the truth, that such a sedate,
plodding fellow as you should have entertained such a craze for a
moment. You said when I called that she was puzzling and peculiar:
I think you are!"

"Have you ever stood before a