“What is it?” he asked.

“Nothing—­nothing,” replied she in the hurried tone of one who is trying hastily to cover his thoughts.

He reflected, understood, burst into a fit of hearty laughter.  “So, you are trying to make a bogey of me?”

She colored, protested faintly.

“Don’t you know I’m about the least tyrannical, least exacting person in the world?”

“You’ve been very patient with me,” said she.

“Now—­now,” cried he in a tone of raillery, “you might as well drop that.  Don’t you know there’s no reason for being afraid of me?”

“Yes, I know it,” replied she.  “But I feel afraid, just the same.  I can’t help it.”

It was impossible for him to appreciate the effect of his personality upon others—­how, without his trying or even wishing, it made them dread a purely imaginary displeasure and its absurdly imaginary consequences.  But this confession of hers was not the first time he had heard of the effect of potential and latent danger he had upon those associated with him.  And, as it was most useful, he was not sorry that he had it.  He made no further attempt to convince her that he was harmless.  He knew that he was harmless where she was concerned.  Was it not just as well that she should not know it, when vaguely dreading him was producing excellent results?  As with a Christian the fear of the Lord was the beginning of wisdom, so with a wife the fear of her husband was the beginning of wisdom.  In striving to please him, to fit herself for the position of wife, she was using up the time she would otherwise have spent in making herself miserable with self-pity—­that supreme curse of the idle both male and female, that most prolific of the breeders of unhappy wives.  Yes, wives were unhappy not because their husbands neglected them, for busy people have no time to note whether they are neglected or not, but because they gave their own worthless, negligent, incapable selves too much attention.

One evening, she, wearing the look of the timid but resolute intruder, came into his room while he was dressing for dinner and hung about with an air no man of his experience could fail to understand.

“Something wrong about the house?” said he finally.  “Need more money?”

“No—­nothing,” she replied, with a slight flush.  He saw that she was mustering all her courage for some grand effort.  He waited, only mildly curious, as his mind was busy with some new business he and Tetlow had undertaken.  Presently she stood squarely before him, her hands behind her back and her face upturned.  “Won’t you kiss me?” she said.

“Sure!” said he.  And he kissed her on the cheek and resumed operations with his military brushes.

“I didn’t mean that—­that kind of a kiss,” said she dejectedly.

He paused with a quick characteristic turn of the head, looked keenly at her, resumed his brushing.  A quizzical smile played over his face.  “Oh, I see,” said he.  “You’ve been thinking about duty.  And you’ve decided to do yours. . . .  Eh?”