“Their mutual friend presented the problem differently.”

“‘You must hold what you have won,’ she said, ’or it will slip away from you.  By a certain course of conduct and behaviour you gained a sweet girl’s regard; show yourself other than you were, how can you expect her to think the same of you?’

“‘You mean,’ he inquired, ’that I should talk and act as her husband exactly as I did when her lover?’

“‘Precisely,’ said the friend ‘why not?’

“‘It seems to me a mistake,’ he grumbled.

“‘Try it and see,’ said the friend.

“‘All right,’ he said, ‘I will.’  And he went straight home and set to work.”

“Was it too late,” asked the Old Maid, “or did they come together again?”

“For the next mouth,” I answered, “they were together twenty-four hours of the day.  And then it was the wife who suggested, like the poet in Gilbert’s Patience, the delight with which she would welcome an occasional afternoon off.”

“He hung about her while she was dressing in the morning.  Just as she had got her hair fixed he would kiss it passionately and it would come down again.  All meal-time he would hold her hand under the table and insist on feeding her with a fork.  Before marriage he had behaved once or twice in this sort of way at picnics; and after marriage, when at breakfast-time he had sat at the other end of the table reading the paper or his letters, she had reminded him of it reproachfully.  The entire day he never left her side.  She could never read a book; instead, he would read to her aloud, generally Browning’ poems or translations from Goethe.  Reading aloud was not an accomplishment of his, but in their courting days she had expressed herself pleased at his attempts, and of this he took care, in his turn, to remind her.  It was his idea that if the game were played at all, she should take a hand also.  If he was to blither, it was only fair that she should bleat back.  As he explained, for the future they would both be lovers all their life long; and no logical argument in reply could she think of.  If she tried to write a letter, he would snatch away the paper her dear hands were pressing and fall to kissing it—­and, of course, smearing it.  When he wasn’t giving her pins and needles by sitting on her feet he was balancing himself on the arm of her chair and occasionally falling over on top of her.  If she went shopping, he went with her and made himself ridiculous at the dressmaker’s.  In society he took no notice of anybody but of her, and was hurt if she spoke to anybody but to him.  Not that it was often, during that month, that they did see any society; most invitations he refused for them both, reminding her how once upon a time she had regarded an evening alone with him as an entertainment superior to all others.  He called her ridiculous names, talked to her in baby language; while a dozen times a day it became necessary for her to take down her back hair and do it up afresh.  At the end of a month, as I have said, it was she who suggested a slight cessation of affection.”