How cruel to say that she did not sympathize with her husband!  How could he be angry with her for her natural anxiety about her old friend!  He was unjust.  There must be something wrong in these schemes, these great operations that made so many confiding people suffer.  Was everybody grasping and selfish?  She got up and walked about the dear room, which recalled to her only the sweetest memories; she wandered aimlessly about the lower part of the house.  She was wretchedly unhappy.  Was her husband capable of such conduct?  Would he cease to love her for what she had done—­for what she must do?  How lovely this home was!  Everything spoke of his care, his tenderness, his quickness to anticipate her slightest wish or whim.  It had been all created for her.  She looked listlessly at the pictures, the painted ceiling, where the loves garlanded with flowers chased each other; she lifted and let drop wearily the rich hangings.  He had said that it was all hers.  How pretty was this vista through the luxurious rooms down to the green and sunny conservatory.  And she shrank instinctively from it all.  Was it hers?  No; it was his.  And was she only a part of it?  Was she his?  How cold his look as he went away!

What is this love, this divine passion, of which we hear so much?  Is it, then, such a discerner of right and wrong?  Is it better than anything else?  Does it take the place of duty, of conscience?  And yet what an unbearable desert, what a den of wild beasts it would be, this world, without love, the passionate, all-surrendering love of the man and the woman!

In the chambers, in her own apartments, into which she dragged her steps, it was worse than below.  Everything here was personal.  Mrs. Fairchild had said that it was too rich, too luxurious; but her husband would have it so.  Nothing was too costly, too good, for the woman he loved.  How happy she had been in this boudoir, this room, her very own, with her books, the souvenirs of all her happy life!

It seemed alien now, external, unsympathetic.  Here, least of all places, could she escape from herself, from her hateful thoughts.  It was a chilly day, and a bright fire crackled on the hearth.  The square was almost deserted, though the sun illuminated it, and showed all the delicate tracery of the branches and twigs.  It was a December sun.  Her easy-chair was drawn to the fire and her book-stand by it, with the novel turned down that she had been reading the night before.  She sat down and took up the book.  She had lost her interest in the characters.  Fiction!  What stuff it was compared to the reality of her own life!  No, it was impossible.  She must do something.  She went to her dressing-room and selected a street dress.  She took pleasure in putting on the plainest costume she could find, rejecting every ornament, everything but the necessary and the simple.  She wanted to get back to herself.  Her maid appeared in response to the bell.