"Yes," I returned, "you ought. That is my frank answer to a direct question. Submission with every worthy wife should have its limits in self-respect. Floyd truly insults you by the life he forces you to live."
She gave a little dismayed cry. "How can it be insult if it only comes from his love?"
I smiled bitterly. "Love can be as harsh a tyrant as ever hate was."
She clasped her hands together, and held them thus; the troubled, restless movement of her eyes bespoke some earnest self-inquiry of perhaps a new sort. Then at length she gave a little start, and looked at me very searchingly indeed.
"Tell me, Douglas—do you think I should take some definite step? Do you think I should make it clear to Floyd that he is not using me fairly as his wife?"
"I think so," was my answer. "Either you will lay up for both your husband and yourself an after-life of great unhappiness, or you will now, with promptness and decision, claim your natural and proper rights. I need not define to you what I believe these are. You have shown me that you perfectly understand them. Still, if you wish to use my own disapproval of his course in supporting and defending your protest, I fully grant you the liberty to do so."
"No, no," she said swiftly, and with some excitement in her vetoing sentences. "I would not for the world have him even fancy that you had thus advised me. Whatever effort I may make had far better seem to him born entirely of my regret and sorrow at this unfortunate defect I find in him—as indeed it should be and will be." Her look glittered tearfully again for a second or two, as it met mine; but she drove back the impulse to reveal further weakness in my presence, though her lips had a tremor, now, that I could not misconstrue. "No, no, Douglas. He is so fond of you. I should be sorry enough if he ever broke with you. You are all that binds him to his fellow-men. I don't know of any one else whom he cares for, whom he even does more than tolerate, except yourself."
"I think I know of one," I said, with dryness in which I was sure she would detect nothing but a grim drollery; and she did detect nothing else.
"Ah, you mean me!" she cried softly. "Of course—yes. But I am too much to him. That is what I want to change. I don't imply that I would have him care for me any less than he does now. . ."
"You would be miserable if he did?"
She smiled in a sweet, arch, defiant way that was a declaration of her unshaken loyalty. "You understand that I would!" she said. "You have seen us so often together."
"Oh, yes, I don't doubt it."
She kept silent, drooping her eyes; then suddenly she lifted them to mine. "If I could only prevail upon you to do a certain thing!" she murmured.
"Prevail upon me ?" I repeated. "To do what?"
"To come and live with us!" She gave a little nervous laugh and
