“By which you mean, sir, that she considers herself bound to endure everything and anything from him, simply because she had been married to him in church?”

Yes, and a great deal more.  Not merely being married in church; but what being married in church means, and what every woman who is a woman understands; and lives up to without flinching, though she die a martyr for it, or a confessor; a far higher saint, if the truth was known, as it will be some day, than all the holy virgins who ever fasted and prayed in a convent since the days when Macarius first turned fakeer.  For to a true woman, the mere fact of a man’s being her husband, put it on the lowest ground that you choose, is utterly sacred, divine, all-powerful; in the might of which she can conquer self in a way which is an everyday miracle; and the man who does not feel about the mere fact of a woman’s having given herself utterly to him, just what she herself feels about it, ought to be despised by all his fellows;—­were it not that, in that case, it would be necessary to despise more human beings than is safe for the soul of any man.

That fortnight was the sunniest which Elsley had passed, since he made secret love to Lucia in Eaton Square.  Romantic walks, the company of a beautiful woman as ready to listen as she was to talk, free licence to pour out all his fancies, sure of admiration, if not of flattery, and pardonably satisfied vanity—­all these are comfortable things for most men, who have nothing better to comfort them.  But, on the whole, this feast did not make Elsley a better or a wiser man at home.  Why should it?  Is a boy’s digestion improved by turning him loose into a confectioner’s shop?  And thus the contrast between what he chose to call Valencia’s sympathy, and Lucia’s want of sympathy, made him, unfortunately, all the more cross to her when they were alone; and who could blame the poor little woman for saying one night, angrily enough: 

“Ah, yes!  Valencia,—­Valencia is imaginative—­Valencia understands you—­Valencia sympathises—­Valencia thinks ...  Valencia has no children to wash and dress, no accounts to keep, no linen to mend—­Valencia’s back does not ache all day long, so that she would be glad enough to lie on the sofa from morning till night, if she was not forced to work whether she can work or not.  No, no; don’t kiss me, for kisses will not make up for injustice, Elsley.  I only trust that you will not tempt me to hate my own sister.  No:  don’t talk to me now, let me sleep if I can sleep; and go and walk and talk sentiment with Valencia to-morrow, and leave the poor little brood hen to sit on her nest, and be despised.”  And refusing all Elsley’s entreaties for pardon, she sulked herself to sleep.