the same slam of the door at parting, the rattle of the latch-key at return, the crash of the closing door, the sullen face again—and then sleep. Thus every day for ever.
Which of us is the more weary of the other? And whose fault is it that this is so. He says it is mine, and I retort that it is his. What matter now whose was the failing if only the evil could be remedied? I know he hates my face, that is growing old, my uninteresting efforts at conversation, my want of dash. He has said so often enough, reproaching me because I was not like Mrs. Lewis, or Mrs. Hunter, or any one but myself. I might be upon their thousands a-year; who knows? One can only afford to be commonplace upon a couple of hundred.
For him new faces meet him in his man's work—if one can call it work to follow out a trade one's heart loves—but for me nothing save the drudgery of tending on him, laying his clothes in order, marketing for his appetite, doing the endless little domestic cares that leave no mark upon the world's scroll of fame and get no recognition at home. I too have had my ambitions and my dreams; but when a
