In her house at Wimbledon she perished of ennui, for she was as lonely as Adela in Holloway.  Much lonelier; she had no resources in herself.  Rodman was away all day in London, and very often he did not return at night; when the latter was the case, Alice cried miserably in her bed for hours, so that the next morning her face was like that of a wax doll that has suffered ill-usage.  She had an endless supply of novels, and day after day bent over them till her head ached.  Poor Princess!  She had had her own romance, in its way brilliant and strange enough, but only the rags of it were left.  She clung to them, she hoped against hope that they would yet recover their gloss and shimmer.  If only he would not so neglect her!  All else affected her but little now that she really knew what it meant to see her husband utterly careless, not to be held by any pettings or entreaties.  She heard through him of her brother ’Arry’s disgrace; it scarcely touched her.  Her brother Richard she was never tired of railing against, railed so much, indeed, that it showed she by no means hated him as much as she declared.  But nothing would have mattered if only her husband had cared for her.

She had once said to Adela that she disliked children and hoped never to have any.  It was now her despair that she remained childless.  Perhaps that was why he had lost all affection?

In the summer Rodman once quitted her for nearly three weeks, during which she only heard from him once.  He was in Ireland, and, he asserted, on business.  The famous ‘Irish Dairy Company,’ soon to occupy a share of public attention, was getting itself on foot.  It was Rodman who promoted the company and who became its secretary, though the name of that functionary in all printed matter appeared as ‘Robert Delancey.’  However, I only mention it for the present to explain our friend’s absence in Ireland.  Alice often worked herself up to a pitch of terror lest her husband had fulfilled his threat and really deserted her.  He returned when it suited him to do so, and tortured her with a story of a wealthy Irish widow who had fallen desperately in love with him.

‘And I’ve a good mind to marry her,’ he added with an air of serious reflection.  Of course I didn’t let her know my real name.  I could manage it very nicely, and you would never know anything about it; I should remit you all the money you wanted, you needn’t be afraid.’

Alice tried to assume a face of stony indignation, but as usual she ended by breaking down and shedding tears.  Then he told her that she was getting plainer than ever, and that it all came of her perpetual ‘water-works.’

Alice hit upon a brilliant idea.  What if she endeavoured to make him jealous?  In spite of her entreaties, he never would take her to town, though he saw that she was perishing for lack of amusement.  Suppose she made him believe that she had gone on her own account, and at the invitation of someone whose name she would not divulge?  I believe she found the trick in one of her novels.  The poor child went to work most conscientiously.  One morning when he came down to breakfast she pretended to have been reading a letter, crushed an old envelope into her pocket on his entering the room, and affected confusion.  He observed her.