He did not insist on their marriage taking place at once, although in her
mood of dull indifference she would not have objected to anything he
might have proposed. It was his hope that after a while she might become
calmer, and more cheerful. He hoped to take in his at the altar a hand a
little less like that of a dead person.

Introducing her as his betrothed wife, he found her very pleasant
lodgings with an excellent family, where he was acquainted, provided her
with books and a piano, took her constantly out to places of amusement,
and, in every way which his ingenuity could suggest, endeavoured to
distract and divert her. To all this she offered neither objection nor
suggestion, nor did she, beyond the usual conventional responses, show
the slightest gratitude. It was as if she took it for granted that he
understood, as she did, that all this was being done for himself, and not
for her, she being quite past having anything done for her. Her only
recognition of the reverential and considerate tenderness which he showed
her was an occasional air of wonder that cut him to the quick. Shame,
sorrow, and despair had incrusted her heart with a hard shell,
impenetrable to genial emotions. Nor would all his love help him to get
over the impression that she was no longer an acquaintance and familiar
friend, but somehow a stranger.

So far as he could find out, she did absolutely nothing all day except to
sit brooding. He could not discover that she so much as opened the books
and magazines he sent her, and, to the best of his knowledge, she made
little more use of her piano. His calls were sadly dreary affairs. He
would ask perhaps half a dozen questions, which he had spent much care in
framing with a view to interesting her. She would reply in monosyllables,