experience. It becomes a little
clearer, perhaps, if we substitute devils for angels. A friend of mine
used always to look at it thus inversely when he quarrelled with his wife.
Forgive so many enigmas to start with, but it was this way. They never
quarrelled more than three times a year, and it was always on the very
smallest trifle, one particular trifle too. On the great things of life
they were at one. It was but a tiny point, a needle's end of difference,
on which they disagreed, and it was on that needle's end that the devils
danced. All the devils of hell, you would have said. At any rate, you
would have no longer wondered why the old philosopher put so odd a
question, for you had only to see little Dora's face lit up with fury over
that ridiculous trifle to have exclaimed: 'Is it possible that so many
devils can dance on a point where there seems hardly footing for a frown?'

However, so it was, and when I tell you what the needle's end was, you
will probably not think me worth a serious person's attention. That I
shall, of course, regret, but it was simply this: Dora _would_ write with
a 'J' pen--for which it was William's idiosyncrasy to have an
unconquerable aversion. She might, you will think, have given way to her
husband on so absurd a point, a mere pen-point of disagreement. He was
the tenderest of husbands in every other point. There is nothing that love
can dream that he was not capable of doing for his wife's sake. But, on
the other hand, it was equally true that there can be no other wife in the
world more devoted than Dora; with her also there was nothing too hard for
love's sake. Could he not waive so ridiculous a blemish? It was little
enough for love to achieve, surely. Yes, strange as it seems, their love
was equal to impossible heroisms: to have died for each other had been
easy, but to surrender this pen-point was impossible. And, alas! as they
always do, the devils found out this needle's end--and danced. For their
purpose it was as good as a platform. It gave them joy indeed to think
what stupendous powers of devilry they could concentrate on so tiny a
stage.

It was a sad thing, too, that Dora and William were able to avoid the
subject three hundred and sixty-four days of the year, but on that odd day
it was sure to crop up. Perhaps they had been out late the night before,
and their nerves were against them. The merest accident would bring it
on. Dora would ask William to post a letter for