.

the terrible lesson, Barbara?"

      "Everything in moderation," she said, and after a little pause, added, "Besides, it isn't true; it isn't possible. Novel writers are compelled to draw upon their imaginations, and they invent unheard-of things – as you will do, I suppose with your stories. Make them hot and strong, John, and you will stand a greater chance of success. People like to have their blood curdled. If I had the talent to write a novel I should stick at nothing. Look at – ," she mentioned the name of a living English author whose stories were wonderfully successful – "he deals in nothing but blood; in every novel he writes he kills hundreds and hundreds of people, and slashes them up dreadfully. His pages absolutely reek with gore. Now, you can't convince me that he is describing real life; he is describing things that never occurred, that never could have occurred. It is just the same with this story that I have been reading. Very clever, of course, and very horrible, but absolutely untrue."

      That was her verdict, and I knew it was useless to argue with her.

      We arrived at Geneva between eight and nine o'clock. In accordance with Barbara's wish, we took the omnibus of the Hotel de la Paix, where Maxwell was to meet us. She was disappointed that he was not at the station; we looked out for him, but we did not see him.

      It happened that the lady and gentleman of whom I have spoken took the same omnibus and were seated when we entered. They drew into a corner of the omnibus, and the gentleman shifted his place so that he sat between his companion and Barbara. He seemed to be desirous that the ladies should not sit next to each other.

      A disappointment awaited Barbara at the hotel. Maxwell was not there. When I gave my name to the proprietor and was speaking about the rooms we were to occupy, he said, "There is a letter for madame," and handed it to her. It was from Maxwell. She read it with a frown.

      "It is a shame – a shame!" she cried.

      "What does he say?" I asked.

      "He will not be here till the end of the week," she replied, fretfully. "He may not be here at all."

      "I am sorry," I said.

      "You are not," she retorted, fiercely. "You are glad."

      And certainly it was she who spoke the truth.

      We went up in the lift to look at our rooms, and then I came down again to order dinner. Returning to inform Barbara that it would be ready in twenty minutes, I found the door locked.

      "Let me alone," Barbara cried from within. "I don't want any dinner. You can have it without me. It won't spoil your appetite."

      I turned to go downstairs and met Annette.

      "Is my wife unwell?" I asked.

      "Madame is disturbed that her brother has not arrived," the woman answered. "She does not require me any longer to-night. I am to get something to eat and go to bed. Good-night, monsieur."

      "Good-night, Annette."

      She had spoken sulkily, as though vexed at not being allowed to wait upon her mistress.

      I had my dinner alone, and afterwards strolled along the banks of the beautiful lake, smoking a cigar. There was no moon, but the sky was bright with stars. I was in no hurry, knowing that when Barbara was in one of her passionate fits it was best to give her plenty of time to get over it. My presence irritated her, and I did not care to be the butt of her unreasonable anger.

      CHAPTER XI

      There was still no news of Maxwell, and I was pleased to be spared his presence.

      Now, I cannot say whether the scene which took place later in the day between me and Barbara was inspired by a communication which she had just received from Annette, or whether she had been already enlightened upon the subject, and had stored up the pretended grievance for use against me when she was in the humor for it. It matters little either way, and perhaps it would have been wiser of me to treat the accusation with contempt; but there are limits to a man's patience, and I could not always keep control of myself. It was commenced by Barbara inquiring whether my lady friend had followed us to Geneva, and by her answering the question herself.

      "But of course she has. You have laid your plans artfully. Keep her out of my way, or I'll strangle her."

      "You are mad," I muttered, and indeed, I must either have believed so, or that she was at her devil's tricks again.

      "Not yet," she screamed, and then I knew that she had been drinking. "Not yet. You may drive me to it in the end, but the end hasn't come yet. No, not by many a long day, Johnnie, my dear! Only don't let me get hold of her, or there'll be murder done."

      "Tell me what you mean," I said, closing the doors and windows, for I was anxious that the people in the hotel should not hear, "and I may be able to answer you."

      "Where is the lady's brooch you bought in Paris?" she asked. "Show it to me, and I'll be satisfied. Well, where is it?"

      Then I recollected that Annette had passed through the room of the hotel in Paris when I emptied my pockets there; I was looking at the brooch, debating what I should do with it.

      "You are thinking what to say," Barbara continued. "I will save you the trouble of inventing a lie. Say that you bought it for me."

      "It would be the truth. I did buy it for you."

      "Give it me, then; it belongs to me."

      "I cannot give it to you; I have parted with it."

      "I knew it without your telling me. You gave it to the other woman."

      "There is no other woman in the case. Be reasonable, Barbara. Things are bad enough, God knows, but I can honestly say you have no cause for jealousy. The brooch was intended for you, but I changed my mind, and returned it to the jeweler."

      "Not thinking it suitable for me."

      "Exactly. I did not think it suitable for you."

      "The device was not appropriate, eh?"

      "It was not appropriate."

      "I wonder you are not ashamed to look me in the face. It was a device of two hearts entwined – yours and another woman's – and it was not a suitable device to offer to me, whom you had married but the day before!" (I thought with dismay that Annette must have sharp eyes to have seen it in that brief moment when she passed me, looking slyly on the ground.) "You are a clumsy liar, John. If you want to know, it was because I was maddened by your shameful conduct that I left you last night. I was sorry for it afterwards. I reasoned with myself, saying, He is my husband, and it is my duty to be by his side. That is why I was not sorry when you found me this morning. You may break my heart, but I will never leave you again, never, never! Now that I have found you out don't presume to lecture me again upon any little faults I may have – but keep your women out of my sight, my dear."

      I argued no longer; my heart was filled with bitterness; the smallest of my actions was turned against me with such ingenuity as to render me powerless.

      I will not dwell upon the incidents that enlivened the remaining weeks of this mockery of a honeymoon. Again and again did I find Barbara under the influence of drink, and again and again did I seek refuge in silence, for every word I spoke was twisted into an accusation against myself. We saw nothing of Maxwell, and after a month's tour Barbara declared she was tired of foreign countries and foreign people, and yearned to take her proper place in our dear little home in London. "Where you will discover," she said (she was in one of her amiable moods), "that I am a model wife, and a perfect treasure of a housekeeper."

      We were in London nearly two months before we settled in our new home, which, as I have stated, was situated in West Kensington. Immediately upon our return Barbara and I drove to the house, and took a tour of inspection through the rooms. It seemed to me that a few days would suffice for the necessary alterations and additions, but Barbara was of a different opinion. This piece of furniture did not suit her, that would not do, the other was altogether out of place. She did not like the paper on the walls, the ceilings were frightful, the patterns of the carpets horrible. Before our marriage we had come to London to see the house, and then she was satisfied with everything, now she is satisfied with nothing. If I