THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 375 looked into them, they appeared portentous. He really meant it he would have liked her to have nothing of her own but her pretty appearance. She knew she had too many ideas ; she had more even than he supposed, many more than she had expressed to him when he asked her to marry him. Yes, she had been hypocritical ; she liked him so much. She had too many ideas for herself; but that was just what one married for, to share them with some one else. One couldn't pluck them up by the roots, though of course one might suppress them, be careful not to utter them. It was not that, however, his objecting to her opinions ; that was nothing. She had no opinions none that she would not have been eager to sacrifice in the satisfaction of feeling herself loved for it. What he meant was the whole thing her character, the way she felt, the way she judged. This was what she had kept in reserve ; this was what he had not known until he found himself with the door closed behind, as it were set down face to face with it. She had a certain way of looking at life which he took as a personal offence. Heaven knew that, now at leai>t, it was a very humble, accom- modating way ! The strange thing was that she should not have suspected from the first that his own was so different. She had thought it so large, so enlightened, so perfectly that of an honest man and a gentleman. Had not he assured her that he had no superstitions, no dull limitations, no prejudices that had lost their freshness? Hadn't he all the appearance of a man living in the open air of the world, indifferent to small considerations, caring only for truth and knowledge, and believ- ing that two intelligent people ought to look for them together, and whether they found them or not, to find at least some happiness in the search 1 He had told her that he loved the conventional ; but there was a sense in which this seemed a noble declaration. In that sense, the love of harmony, and order, and decency, and all the stately offices of life, she went with him freely, and his warning had contained nothing ominous. But when, as the months elapsed, she followed him further and hj ed her into the mansion of his own habitation, then, then she had seen where she really was. She could live it over again, the incredulous terror with which she had taken the measure of her dwelling. Between those four walls she had lived ever since ; they were to surround her for the rest of her life. It was the house of darkness, the house of dumbness, the house of suffocation. Osmond's beautiful mind gave it neither light nor air; Osmond's beautiful mind, indeed, seemed to peep down from a small high window and mock at her. Of course it was
