Virginia turned away.  Confusedly she said: 

“I can’t—­now.”

“Oh, yes, you can,” said Fanny coaxingly, “me—­your sister.”

“No—­no—­”

“Yes, you can, dear.  Does he come home in a nasty temper?”

“He’s generally in the best of tempers—­at first.”

“And afterwards?  You can tell me!  What is it?”

“Afterward,” said the young wife in a low tone, as if ashamed to tell the rest:  “it isn’t love at all—­he’s just a stranger—­inflamed with liquor—­who has me in his power!”

Fanny, shocked, clasped her sister the more closely.

“Virgie!” she exclaimed.  “Poor little Virgie!”

“Yes, it’s horrible,” said Virginia, with difficulty keeping back the tears.  “Sometimes,” she went on, “for days I can hardly look at him!  And yet, strange as it may seem, I still love him!  I love him to-day better than I ever loved him.  Why?  I do not know.  If it wasn’t for just that one thing I could be the happiest woman in the world.”

“Poor little girl,” murmured Fanny, consolingly.

At that moment there was a sharp rap on the door.  The elder sister quickly went to open.

“It’s James,” she said, “shall I let him in?”

“Certainly,” replied Virginia.

CHAPTER XIII

Mr. James Gillie looked to-day an entirely different person to what he had appeared when he first came courting his wife.  He had never lacked a bold front, at any time, but in those early days his salary of $14 per did not permit any great latitude in the important matter of furnishing his wardrobe.  Compelled to be satisfied with the cheapest ready-made garments, the knowledge of his sartorial shortcomings had always exercised a certain sobering effect on him, especially when in presence of his superiors.  But now conditions had changed.  Thanks to his present employer’s liberality, he was able to stamp himself with the hall mark of success.  As Robert Stafford’s right-hand man, drawing $5,000 a year, self-denial was no longer necessary; he could indulge his taste to the limit.  Dressed in a fashionably cut evening dress coat, with white tie and waistcoat, patent-leather pumps and silk socks with embroidered trees, anyone might have easily taken him for a gentleman—­until they heard him talk.  His speech, crude and slangy as ever, seemed to have lagged behind in his climb toward business and social recognition.

Nor could it be said that the young man, so fertile in ideas, had lived up to all the brilliant promises which he had made.  After two years rich with opportunities of a kind which fall to the lot of few men, he had accomplished nothing that was at all likely to prove of lasting or even temporary benefit to his fellow man.  Much to his astonishment and mortification, his most cherished inventions had been openly derided as little better than the ravings of a lunatic, and