e asked
for, including his own ease and consequence, his own vital health and
strength.

But the honeymoon waned, and the novelty wore off, and prudence and old
habits resumed their sway. He grew tired of incessant gadding about,
alarmed at his symptoms of physical overstrain, weary for his arm-chair
and his club, and his men friends and his masculine occupations. She,
on the other hand, insatiable for admiration and excitement still, was
weary of his constant company. It became the kill-joy of her festive
days, growing from a necessary bore to an intolerable irritation as the
dimensions of her little court of younger gallants enlarged about her.
Therefore she had no objection to his halting on the toilsome path, so
long as he allowed her to go on alone.

It was not a case of allowing, however. He might object, and did; but
he was no match for her either in diplomacy or in fight, and her
cajoleries were usually sufficient for her ends, without calling out
the reserves behind them. In any contest between selfishness and
unselfishness, the result is a foregone conclusion.

So she began to go about with miscellaneous escorts, to play the
combined parts of frisky matron and society beauty--an intoxicating
experience; while the supporter of that proud position played the
humble role of chief comer-stone, unseen and unconsidered in the
basement of the fabric. He attended to his investments and increasing
infirmities, and made secret visits to a married daughter (wife of a
big hotel-keeper), who hated her young step-mother, and whose existence
Frances ignored.

One day, Guthrie Carey, after several voyages to other ports, appeared
again in Melbourne. He had just landed, and was strolling along Collins
Street, when he encountered a vision of loveliness that almost took
away his breath.

"What! It is not Miss Frances, surely?"

"It is not," smiled she, all her beauty at its conscious best as she
recognised his, which was that of a man of men, splendid in his strong
prime. And she told him who she was, and a few other things, as they
stood on the pavement--she so graceful in her mature self-possession,
he staring at her, stupidly distraught, like a bewildered school-boy.

"I had no idea--" he mumbled.

"That I was married? Alas, yes!"--with a sad shake of the head. "We
girls are fated, I think."

"Miss Deb?"

"Oh, not Deb; she has escaped so far."

"Is she well?"

"I have not seen her lately, but I am sure she is