e? For she had no doubt but that she was an obstacle to
his enjoyment. He had made promises to Violet Vere which he was "ready
to fulfill,"--he offered her "an honorable position,"--he desired her
"not to condemn him to death,"--he besought her to let his words "carry
more weight with her."

"It is because I am here," thought Thelma wearily. "She would listen to
him if I were gone!" She had the strangest notions of wifely duty--odd
minglings of the stern Norse customs with the gentler teachings of
Christianity,--yet in both cases the lines of woman's life were clearly
defined in one word--obedience. Most women, receiving an apparent proof
of a husband's infidelity, would have made what is termed a
"scene,"--would have confronted him with rage and tears, and personal
abuse,--but Thelma was too gentle for this,--too gentle to resist what
seemed to be Philip's wish and will, and far too proud to stay where it
appeared evident she was not wanted. Moreover she could not bear the
idea of speaking to him on, such a subject as his connection with Violet
Vere,--the hot color flushed her cheeks with a sort of shame as she
thought of it.

Of course, she was weak--of course, she was foolish,--we will grant that
she was anything the reader chooses to call her. It is much better for a
woman nowadays to be defiant rather than yielding,--aggressive, not
submissive,--violent, not meek. We all know that! To abuse a husband
well all round, is the modern method of managing him! But poor, foolish,
loving, sensitive Thelma had nothing of the magnificent strength of mind
possessed by most wives of to-day,--she could only realize that
Philip--her Philip--was "utterly weary and broken-hearted"--for the sake
of another woman--and that other woman actually pitied _her_! She pitied
herself too, a little vaguely--her brows ached and throbbed
violently--there was a choking sensation in her throat, but she could
not weep. Tears would have relieved her tired brain, but no tears fell.
She strove to decide on some immediate plan of action,--Philip would be
home to-morrow,--she recoiled at the thought of meeting him, knowing
what she knew. Glancing dreamily at her own figure, reflected by the
lamplight in the long mirror opposite, she recognized that she was fully
attired in outdoor costume--all save her hat, which she had taken off
after her first greeting of Lady Winsleigh, and which was still on the
table at her side. She looked at the clock,--it was