night had a little return of her lost peace.  Then during one of the meetings, a really good paper was read, which set her thinking.  That evening she played dominoes with Maida and Adelaide, and always after that a game followed dinner.  The mother became intimate with her children.  She really loved them because of her loss of love for herself, and because the heart must hold love.  She loved her husband too, but he realised no difference because he had loved her.  That coldness had had no headway against such doting worship.  But the children realised.

“Mamma is so much better since she wrote that book that I shall be glad when you are old enough to write a book too,” Adelaide said once to Maida.

But always Margaret suffered horribly, although she gave no sign.  She took care of her beauty.  She was more particular than ever about her dress.  She entertained, she accepted every invitation, and they multiplied since Wilbur’s flight in politics and her own reputed authorship.  She was Spartan in her courage, but she suffered, because she saw herself as she was and she had so loved herself.  It was not until Annie Eustace was married that she obtained the slightest relief.  Then she ascertained that the friend whom she had robbed of her laurels had obtained a newer and greener crown of them.  She went to the wedding and saw on a table, Annie’s new book.  She glanced at it and she knew and she wondered if Von Rosen knew.  He did not.

Annie waited until after their return from their short wedding journey when they were settled in their home.  Then one evening, seated with her husband before the fire in the study, with the yellow cat in her lap, and the bull terrier on the rug, his white skin rosy in the firelight, she said: 

“Karl, I have something to tell you.”

Von Rosen looked lovingly at her.  “Well, dear?”

“It is nothing, only you must not tell, for the publishers insist upon its being anonymous, I—­wrote The Firm Hand.”

Von Rosen made a startled exclamation and looked at Annie and she could not understand the look.

“Are you displeased?” she faltered.  “Don’t you like me to write?  I will never neglect you or our home because of it.  Indeed I will not.”

“Displeased,” said Von Rosen.  He got up and deliberately knelt before her.  “I am proud that you are my wife,” he said, “prouder than I am of anything else in the world.”

“Please get up, dear,” said Annie, “but I am so glad, although it is really I who am proud, because I have you for my husband.  I feel all covered over with peacock’s eyes.”

“I cannot imagine a human soul less like a peacock,” said Von Rosen.  He put his arms around her as he knelt, and kissed her, and the yellow cat gave an indignant little snarl and jumped down.  He was jealous.

“Sit down,” said Annie, laughing.  “I thought the time had come to tell you and I hoped you would be pleased.  It is lovely, isn’t it?  You know it is selling wonderfully.”