Nay, as he continued to ask himself, had not the change already begun?  He grew less and less accustomed to see in Sheila a beautiful wild sea-bird that had fluttered down for a time into a strange home in the South.  He had not quite forgotten or abandoned those imaginative scenes in which the wonderful sea-princess was to enter crowded drawing-rooms and have all the world standing back to regard her and admire her and sing her praises.  But now he was not so sure that that would be the result of Sheila’s entrance into society.  As the date of a certain dinner-party drew near he began to wish she was more like the women he knew.  He did not object to her strange sweet ways of speech, nor to her odd likes and dislikes, nor even to an unhesitating frankness that nearly approached rudeness sometimes in its scorn of all compromise with the truth; but how would others regard these things?  He did not wish to gain the reputation of having married an oddity.

“Sheila,” he said on the morning of the day on which they were going to this dinner-party, “you should not say like-a-ness.  There are only two syllables in likeness.  It really does sound absurd to hear you say like-a-ness.”

She looked up to him with a quick trouble in her eyes.  When had he spoken to her so petulantly before?  And then she cast down her eyes again, and said submissively, “I will try not to speak like that.  When you go out I take a book and read aloud, and try to speak like you; but I cannot learn all at once.”

“I don’t mind,” he said.  “But you know other people must think it so odd.  I wonder why you should always say gyarden for garden now, when it is just as easy to say garden?”

Once upon a time he had said there was no English like the English spoken in Lewis, and had singled out this very word as typical of one peculiarity in the pronunciation.  But she did not remind him of that.  She only said in the same simple fashion, “If you will tell me my faults I will try to correct them.”

She turned away from him to get an envelope for a letter she had been writing to her father.  He fancied something was wrong, and perhaps some touch of compunction smote him, for he went after her and took her hand, and said, “Look here, Sheila.  When I point out any trifles like that, you must not call them faults, and fancy I have any serious complaint to make.  It is for your own good that you should meet the people who will be your friends on equal terms, and give them as little as possible to talk about.”

“I should not mind their talking about me,” said Sheila with her eyes still cast down, “but it is your wife they must not talk about; and if you will tell me anything I do wrong I will correct it.”

“Oh, you must not think it is anything so serious as that.  You will soon pick up from the ladies you will meet some notion of how you differ from them; and if you should startle or puzzle them a little at first by talking about the chances of the fishing or the catching of wild-duck, or the way to reclaim bogland, you will soon get over all that.”