g
their own lives, restlessly straining every nerve to realise their
individual ambitions.

Now that every obstacle had been removed, every threatening danger
overcome, we began to breathe freely and reconsider our position. I
was ostracised by my relations, no meddlesome member of my family
threatened the peace of our home, and since the only relative of my
wife's who lived on the spot was her aunt, we were spared the frequent
calls and visits which so often give rise to serious troubles and
trials in a young _menage_.




II


Six weeks later I made the discovery that two intruders had insinuated
themselves into my wife's confidence.

One of them was a dog, a King Charles, a blear-eyed little monster,
which greeted me with deafening yelping and barking every time I
entered the house, just as if I had been a stranger. I always disliked
dogs, those protectors of cowards who lack the courage to fight an
assailant themselves; but I particularly disliked this dog, because
it was a relic of her first marriage, a constant reminder of her late
husband.

The first time I protested, and ordered it to lie down, my wife
reproached me gently, and made excuses for the little beast, which she
called her late daughter's legacy, pretending to be horror-struck at
this suddenly revealed strain of cruelty in my disposition.

One day I found traces of the little monster on the drawing-room
carpet. I punished it, and she called me a coward who ill-treated dumb
creatures.

"But what else could I do, my dear? It's no use arguing with animals;
they don't understand our language."

She began to cry, and sobbingly confessed that she could not help being
afraid of a cruel man....

And the monster continued to dirty the drawing-room carpet.

I decided to take the trouble to train the dog, and did my utmost
to convince her that a little perseverance does wonders with an
intelligent animal.

She lost her temper, and for the first time drew my attention to the
fact that the carpet belonged to her.

"Take it away, then; I never undertook to li