At the moment Sewell reached his desk, with a spirit disciplined to
the sacrifice required of it, he heard his wife's step outside his
study door, and he had just time to pull open a drawer, throw the
letter into it, and shut it again before she entered. He did not
mean finally to conceal it from her, but he was willing to give
himself breath before he faced her with the fact that he had
received such a letter. Nothing in its way was more terrible to this
good man than the righteousness of that good woman. In their case,
as in that of most other couples who cherish an ideal of dutiful
living, she was the custodian of their potential virtue, and he was
the instrument, often faltering and imperfect, of its application to
circumstances; and without wishing to spare himself too much, he was
sometimes aware that she did not spare him enough. She worked his
moral forces as mercilessly as a woman uses the physical strength of
a man when it is placed at her direction.
"What is the matter, David?" she asked, with a keen glance at the
face he turned upon her over his shoulder.
"Nothing that I wish to talk of at present, my dear," answered
Sewell, with a boldness that he knew would not avail him if she
persisted in knowing.
"Well, there would be no time if you did," said his wife. "I'm
dreadfully sorry for you, David, but it's really a case you can't
refuse.
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