bewildered air, at the terrible snobbishness, to be candid, which his lively wife’s conversation revealed.  She was for ever talking about “the right people,” and the only subject which seemed to arouse her enthusiasm was the fact that she had been received on equal terms by some of the wives of neighbouring squires.  The Major tried to give a pleasant turn to the conversation, and when he was alone with me, after praising the practical good sense of his wife, added, “Of course she hasn’t quite settled down yet!  She has lived rather a poky life, and the change has upset her a little.”  That was the nearest that the good fellow could get to an apology, and it touched me a good deal.  I did my part, and praised my hostess’s charm and beauty, and expressed gratitude for the warmth of my welcome.

But now that I have had time to reflect on the situation, I am not at all sure that the Major is not to be congratulated after all.  He has got before him a perfectly definite occupation, and one which he will fulfil with all the generosity of his nature.  He was a lonely man before his marriage, and, like all lonely men, was becoming somewhat self-absorbed.  Now his work is cut out for him.  He has got to make the best of a tiresome and unsympathetic wife.  I will venture to say that if the Major lives to be eighty, his wife will never suspect that he does not adore and admire her.  He will never say a harsh or unkind or critical thing to her.  He may induce her, perhaps, by gentle precepts, to moderate her complacency; and perhaps, too, they will have children, and some kind affection may awake in his shallow little partner’s heart.  The Major will make a perfect father, and he will find in his children, if only they inherit something of his own wise and tender nature, a deep and lasting joy.  I think that if he had married an adoring and sympathetic wife, he might almost have grown exacting—­perhaps even selfish, because he is the sort of man that requires to have the best part of him evoked.  He is unambitious and in a way indolent; and if everything had been done for him—­his wishes anticipated, sympathy lavished upon him—­he would have had no region in which to exercise that self-restraint which is now a necessity of the case.  We are very liable to try and arrange the lives of others for them, and to think we could have done better for them than Providence; and since I have pondered over the situation, I am inclined to be ashamed of myself for feeling the regret which I began by feeling.  If there was any weakness in my friend’s mind, if I thought that he would grow irritable, harsh, impatient with his silly wife, it would be different.  But he will have to stand between her and the world; she will shock and distress all his finer feelings and instincts of propriety.  They will go and pay visits, and he will have to hear her saying all sorts of trivial and vulgar things.  He will make himself into a kind guardian and interpreter and champion for this foolish young woman.  She