I wish I could give you some clear idea of the wife I had gained, some slight notion of the happiness and delight and bliss in which I revelled,—­that is, if a man purely and unutterably selfish has a right to call that happiness—­which he enjoys.  Eudora lived only for me.  She rose, she sat, she came, she went only to pleasure me.  She had one thought, one idea:  it was for me.  And what was my return?  Nothing,—­absolutely and literally nothing.  I accepted every service, every sweet, loving token, every delicate act of devotion, as something to which I was entitled,—­as my right.  Forty-four years old, a life with one idea, a narrow, selfish, overbearing nature, ministered to by such a creature, noble, lovely, true, with eighteen years of life!

Three years thus passed,—­three years which ate slowly into Eudora’s heart,—­teaching her she had a heart, and bringing forth such fruit as such experiences would produce.  Yet she had not lost faith in me.  She might have felt that perfection did not belong to man, and therefore I was not perfect; but she cheated herself as to all the rest.  If she were not perfectly happy with a husband who took no pains to sympathize with her, who repressed instead of encouraging the natural vivacity of her nature, who never went abroad with her to places where every one was accustomed to go, still she did not lay the cause at my door.

I had another cousin:  this cousin was a man, twenty-four years old when he first came, by a mere chance, to the town where we lived.  He was, like you, a painter,—­not one of those poor romantic vagabonds who multiply pictures of themselves in every new composition, and who starve on their own sighs.  This man was in the enjoyment of a handsome competence, and made painting his profession because he loved the art.  My cousin who resided in the place knew this man-cousin of mine.  He paid her a visit; and while he was in her house, my wife happened to go in.  Thus the acquaintance began.  The next day he came to see me.  I received him cordially, and invited him to visit us often.  At length he became perfectly at home in our house.  I was pleased with this,—­for I began to feel that Eudora drew heavily on my time, insisting too much on my society; and I was only glad to escape by leaving her to the society of my relative,—­blind fool that I was!  But I must do him justice.  He was a noble specimen of a fresh-hearted young man,—­loyal and honorable.  Yet how could he escape the fascination of Eudora’s presence?—­how tear himself away from it, when he had no thought that it was dangerous?  At my request, my wife sat to him for a small portrait:  this is it which I have permitted you to copy.  By-and-by, and really to keep Eudora from engrossing too much of my time, I allowed her to go out with our artist-cousin; and in company they examined paintings, and viewed scenery, and talked, and walked, and sometimes read together.

One evening, while seated in my library, deeply abstracted, the door opened and Eudora entered.  I looked up, saw who it was, and relapsed into study.