we do not like to acknowledge, is the secrecy and equivocation which they beget.  From the very first moment when the intimacy between the squire’s wife and Clem began to be anything more than harmless, he was compelled to shuffle and to become contemptible.  At the same time I believe he defended himself against himself with the weapons which were ever ready when self rose against self because of some wrong-doing.  He was not as other men.  It was absurd to class what he did with what an ordinary person might do, although externally his actions and those of the ordinary person might resemble one another.  I cannot trace the steps by which the two sinners drew nearer and nearer together, for the simple reason that this is an autobiography, and not a novel.  I do not know what the development was, nor did anybody except the person concerned.  Neither do I know what was the mental history of Mrs. Butts during this unhappy period.  She seldom talked about it afterwards.  I do, however, happen to recollect hearing her once say that her greatest trouble was the cessation, from some unknown cause, of Clem’s attempts—­they were never many—­to interest and amuse her.  It is easy to understand how this should be.  If a man is guilty of any defection from himself, of anything of which he is ashamed, everything which is better becomes a farce to him.  After he has been betrayed by some passion, how can he pretend to the perfect enjoyment of what is pure?  The moment he feels any disposition to rise, he is stricken through as if with an arrow, and he drops.  Not until weeks, months, and even years have elapsed, does he feel justified in surrendering himself to a noble emotion.  I have heard of persons who have been able to ascend easily and instantaneously from the mud to the upper air, and descend as easily; but to me at least they are incomprehensible.  Clem, less than most men, suffered permanently, or indeed in any way from remorse, because he was so shielded by his peculiar philosophy; but I can quite believe that when he got into the habit of calling at the Hall at mid-day, his behaviour to his wife changed.

One day in December the squire had gone out with the hounds.  Clem, going on from bad to worse, had now reached the point of planning to be at the Hall when the squire was not at home.  On that particular afternoon Clem was there.  It was about half-past four o’clock, and the master was not expected till six.  There had been some music, the lady accompanying, and Clem singing.  It was over, and Clem, sitting down beside her at the piano, and pointing out with his right hand some passage which had troubled him, had placed his left arm on her shoulder, and round her neck, she not resisting.  He always swore afterwards that never till then had such a familiarity as this been permitted, and I believe that he did not tell a lie.  But what was there in that familiarity?  The worst was already there, and it was through a mere accident that it never showed itself.  The