However, the motto of married life is (or ought to be):  Peace at any price.  I have been this day relieved from the condition of secrecy that has been imposed on me.  You insisted on an explanation some time since.  Here it is at last.

For the ten-thousandth time, my dear, in our joint lives, you are again right.  That letter, marked private, which I received at the domestic tea-table, was what you positively declared it to be, a letter from a lady—­a charming lady, plunged in the deepest perplexity.  We had been well known to each other for many years, as lawyer and client.  She wanted advice on this occasion also—­and wanted it in the strictest confidence.  Was it consistent with my professional duty to show her letter to my wife?  Mrs. Sarrazin says Yes; Mrs. Sarrazin’s husband says No.

Let me add that the lady was a person of unblemished reputation, and that she was placed in a false position through no fault of her own.  In plain English, she was divorced.  Ah, my dear (to speak in the vivid language of the people), do you smell a rat?

Yes:  my client was Mrs. Norman; and to her pretty cottage in the country I betook myself the next day.  There I found my excellent friend Randal Linley, present by special invitation.

Stop a minute.  Why do I write all this, instead of explaining myself by word of mouth?  My love, you are a member of an old and illustrious family; you honored me when you married me; and you have (as your father told me on our wedding day) the high and haughty temper of your race.  I foresee an explosion of this temper, and I would rather have my writing-paper blown up than be blown up myself.

Is this a cowardly confession on my part?  All courage, Mrs. Sarrazin, is relative; the bravest man living has a cowardly side to his character, though it may not always be found out.  Some years ago, at a public dinner, I sat next to an officer in the British army.  At one time in his life he had led a forlorn hope.  At another time, he had picked up a wounded soldier, and had carried him to the care of the surgeons through a hail-storm of the enemy’s bullets.  Hot courage and cool courage, this true hero possessed both. I saw the cowardly side of his character.  He lost his color; perspiration broke out on his forehead; he trembled; he talked nonsense; he was frightened out of his wits.  And all for what?  Because he had to get on his legs and make a speech!

Well:  Mrs. Norman, and Randal Linley, and I, sat down to our consultation at the cottage.

What did my fair client want?

She contemplated marrying for the second time, and she wanted my advice as a lawyer, and my encouragement as an old friend.  I was quite ready; I only waited for particulars.  Mrs. Norman became dreadfully embarrassed, and said:  “I refer you to my brother-in-law.”

I looked at Randal.  “Once her brother-in-law, no doubt,” I said; “but after the Divorce—­” My friend stopped me there.  “After the Divorce,” he remarked, “I may be her brother-in-law again.”