He passed the Edes’ house on his way and saw that a number of the upper windows were still lighted.  He even heard a masculine voice pitched on a high cadence of joy and triumph.  He smiled a little scornfully.  “He thinks his wife is the most wonderful woman in the world,” he told himself, “and I dare say that a novel is simply like an over-sweetened ice-cream, with an after taste of pepper, out of sheer deviltry.”  Had he known it, Margaret Edes herself was tasting pepper, mustard and all the fierce condiments known, in her very soul.  It was a singular thing that Margaret had been obliged to commit an ignoble deed in order to render her soul capable of tasting to the full, but she had been so constituted.  As Karl von Rosen passed that night, she was sitting in her room, clad in her white silk negligee and looking adorable, and her husband was fairly on his knees before her, worshipping her, and she was suffering after a fashion hitherto wholly uncomprehended by her.  Margaret had never known that she could possibly be to blame for anything, that she could sit in judgment upon herself.  Now she knew it and the knowledge brought a torture which had been unimaginable by her.  She strove not to make her shrinking from her husband and his exultation—­her terrified shrinking—­evident.

“Oh, Margaret, you are simply wonderful beyond words,” said Wilbur, gazing up into her face.  “I always knew you were wonderful, of course, darling, but this!  Why, Margaret, you have gained an international reputation from that one book!  And the reviews have been unanimous, almost unanimous in their praise.  I have not read it, dear.  I am so ashamed of myself, but you know I never read novels, but I am going to read my Margaret’s novel.  Oh, my dear, my wonderful, wonderful dear!” Wilbur almost sobbed.  “Do you know what it may do for me, too?” he said.  “Do you know, Margaret, it may mean my election as Senator.  One can never tell what may sway popular opinion.  Once, if anybody had told me that I might be elected to office and my election might possibly be due to the fact that my wife had distinguished myself, I should have been humbled to the dust.  But I cannot be humbled by any success which may result from your success.  I did not know my wonderful Margaret then.”  Wilbur kissed his wife’s hands.  He was almost ridiculous, but it was horribly tragic for Margaret.

She longed as she had never longed for anything in her life, for the power to scream, to shout in his ears the truth, but she could not.  She was bound hard and fast in the bands of her own falsehood.  She could not so disgrace her husband, her children.  Why had she not thought of them before?  She had thought only of herself and her own glory, and that glory had turned to stinging bitterness upon her soul.  She was tasting the bitterest medicine which life and the whole world contains.  And at the same time, it was not remorse that she felt.  That would have been easier.  What she endured was self-knowledge.