Frank had a long and animated account from Maude of the extraordinary visitor whom she had entertained.  ’It’s such a pity, dear, that you don’t know her well, for I should really like to hear every detail about her.  At first I thought she was mad, and then I thought she was odious, and then finally she seemed to be the very wisest and kindest woman that I had ever known.  She made me angry, and frightened, and grieved, and grateful, and affectionate, one after the other, and I never in my life was so taken out of myself by any one.  She is so sensible!’

‘Sensible, is she?’

’And she said that I was—­oh!  I can’t repeat it—­everything that is nice.’

‘Then she is sensible.’

‘And such a high opinion of your taste.’

‘Had she indeed.’

’Do you know, Frank, I really believe that in a quiet, secret, retiring sort of way she has been fond of you herself.’

’O Maude, what funny ideas you get sometimes!  I say, if we are going out for dinner, it is high time that we began to dress.’

CHAPTER XX—­NO. 5 CHEYNE ROW

Frank had brought home the Life of Carlyle, and Maude had been dipping into it in the few spare half-hours which the many duties of a young housekeeper left her.  At first it struck her as dry, but from the moment that she understood that this was, among other things, an account of the inner life of a husband and a wife, she became keenly interested, and a passionate and unreasonable partisan.  For Frederick and Cromwell and the other great issues her feelings were tolerant but lukewarm.  But the great sex-questions of ’How did he treat her?’ and of ‘How did she stand it?’ filled her with that eternal and personal interest with which they affect every woman.  Her gentle nature seldom disliked any one, but certainly amongst those whom she liked least, the gaunt figure of the Chelsea sage began to bulk largely.  One night, as Frank sat reading in front of the fire, he suddenly found his wife on her knees upon the rug, and a pair of beseeching eyes upon his face.

‘Frank, dear, I want you to make me a promise.’

‘Well, what is it?’

‘Will you grant it?’

‘How can I tell you when I have not heard it?’

’How horrid you are, Frank!  A year ago you would have promised first and asked afterwards.’

‘But I am a shrewd old married man now.  Well, let me hear it.’

‘I want you to promise me that you will never be a Carlyle.’

‘No, no, never.’

‘Really?’

‘Really and truly.’

‘You swear it?’

‘Yes, I do.’

’O Frank, you can’t think what a relief that is to me.  That dear, good, helpful, little lady—­it really made me cry this morning when I thought how she had been used.’

‘How, then?’

’I have been reading that green-covered book of yours, and he seemed so cold and so sarcastic and so unsympathetic.  He never seemed to appreciate all that she did for him.  He had no thought for her.  He lived in his books and never in her—­such a harsh, cruel man!’