‘Yes—­that’s true—­but—­’

‘Well, well, you won’t let it happen again.  Oh really, Archibald!’ she suddenly exclaimed.  ’The idea of you coming into the room with muddy boots!  Why, look!  There’s a patch of mud on the carpet—­’

‘It was my hurry to speak to you,’ murmured Mr. Jordan, in confusion.

’Please go at once and take your boots off.  And you left your slippers in the bedroom this morning.  You must always bring them down, and put them in the dining-room cupboard; then they’re ready for you when you come into the house.’

Mr. Jordan had but a moderate appetite for his dinner, and he did not talk so pleasantly as usual.  This was but the beginning of troubles such as he had not for a moment foreseen.  His wife, having since their engagement taken the upper hand, began to show her determination to keep it, and day by day her rule grew more galling to the ex-bachelor.  He himself, in the old days, had plagued his landladies by insisting upon method and routine, by his faddish attention to domestic minutiae; he now learnt what it was to be subjected to the same kind of despotism, exercised with much more exasperating persistence.  Whereas Mrs. Elderfield had scrupulously obeyed every direction given by her lodger, Mrs. Jordan was evidently resolved that her husband should live, move, and have his being in the strictest accordance with her own ideal.  Not in any spirit of nagging, or ill-tempered unreasonableness; it was merely that she had her favourite way of doing every conceivable thing, and felt so sure it was the best of all possible ways that she could not endure any other.  The first serious disagreement between them had reference to conduct at the breakfast-table.  After a broken night, feeling headachy and worried, Mr. Jordan took up his newspaper, folded it conveniently, and set it against the bread so that he could read while eating.  Without a word, his wife gently removed it, and laid it aside on a chair.

‘What are you doing?’ he asked gruffly.

’You mustn’t read at meals, Archibald.  It’s bad manners, and bad for your digestion.’

‘I’ve read the news at breakfast all my life, and I shall do so still,’ exclaimed the husband, starting up and recovering his paper.

’Then you will have breakfast by yourself.  Nelly, we must go into the other room till papa has finished.’

Mr. Jordan ate mechanically, and stared at the newspaper with just as little consciousness.  Prompted by the underlying weakness of his character to yield for the sake of peace, wrath made him dogged, and the more steadily he regarded his position, the more was he appalled by the outlook.  Why, this meant downright slavery!  He had married a woman so horribly like himself in several points that his only hope lay in overcoming her by sheer violence.  A thoroughly good and well-meaning woman, an excellent housekeeper, the kind of wife to do him credit and improve his social position; but self-willed, pertinacious, and probably thinking herself his superior in every respect.  He had nothing to fear but subjection—­the one thing he had never anticipated, the one thing he could never endure.