oo often, for he knew in his
own honest heart that his passion for Thelma increased each time he saw
her--so, he avoided her. She missed him very much from her circle of
intimates, and often went to see his mother, Mrs. Lorimer, one of the
sweetest old ladies in the world,--who had at once guessed her son's
secret, but, like a prudent dame, kept it to herself. There were few
young women as pretty and charming as old Mrs. Lorimer, with her
snow-white parted hair and mild blue eyes, and voice as cheery as the
note of a thrush in spring-time. After Lady Winsleigh, Thelma liked her
best of all her new friends, and was fond of visiting her quiet little
house in Kensington,--for it was very quiet, and seemed like a sheltered
haven of rest from the great rush of frivolity and folly in which the
fashionable world delighted.

And Thelma was often now in need of rest. As the season drew towards its
close, she found herself strangely tired and dispirited. The life she
was compelled to lead was all unsuited to her nature--it was artificial
and constrained,--and she was often unhappy. Why? Why, indeed! She did
her best,--but she made enemies everywhere. Again, why? Because she had
a most pernicious,--most unpleasant habit of telling the truth. Like
Socrates, she seemed to say--"If any man should appear to me not to
possess virtue, but to pretend that he does, I shall reproach him." This
she expressed silently in face, voice, and manner,--and, like Socrates,
she might have added that she went about "perceiving, indeed, and
grieving and alarmed that she was making herself odious." For she
discovered, by degrees, that many people looked strangely upon her--that
others seemed afraid of her--and she continually heard that she was
considered "eccentric." So she became more reserved--even cold,--she was
content to let others argue about trifles, and air their whims and
follies without offering an opinion on any side.

And by-and-by the first shadow began to sweep over the fairness of her
married life. It happened at a time when she and her husband were not
quite so much together,--society and its various claims had naturally
separated them a little, but now a question of political ambition
separated them still more. Some well-intentioned friends had persuaded
Sir Philip to stand for Parliament--and this idea no sooner entered his
head, than he decided with impulsive ardor that he had been too long
without a "career,"--and a "career" he mu