One Sunday afternoon some time after this they were sailing the summer seas in their dream yacht, and reclining in lazy luxury under the awning of the after-deck.

There was silence, for each was busy with his own thoughts.

These seasons of silence had insensibly been growing more and more frequent of late; the old nearness and cordiality were waning.
Sally's terrible revelation had done its work; Aleck had tried hard to drive the memory of it out of her mind, but it would not go, and the shame and bitterness of it were poisoning her gracious dream life.

She could see now (on Sundays) that her husband was becoming a bloated and repulsive Thing.

She could not close her eyes to this, and in these days she no longer looked at him, Sundays, when she could help it.
But she--was she herself without blemish?
Alas, she knew she was not.
She was keeping a secret from him, she was acting dishonorably toward him, and many a pang it was costing her.