And he knew she was so different; he knew how loving, nay, passionate, was her nature--vehement, demonstrative--oh! how could he stir her once more into expression, even if the first show or speech she made was of anger?
Then he tried being angry with her himself; he was sometimes unjust to her consciously and of a purpose, in order to provoke her into defending herself, and appealing against his unkindness.

He only seemed to drive her love away still more.
If any one had known all that was passing in that household, while yet the story of it was not ended, nor, indeed, come to its crisis, their hearts would have been sorry for the man who lingered long at the door of the room in which his wife sate cooing and talking to her baby, and sometimes laughing back to it, or who was soothing the querulousness of failing age with every possible patience of love; sorry for the poor listener who was hungering for the profusion of tenderness thus scattered on the senseless air, yet only by stealth caught the echoes of what ought to have been his.
It was so difficult to complain, too; impossible, in fact.
Everything that a wife could do from duty she did; but the love seemed to have fled, and, in such cases, no reproaches or complaints can avail to bring it back.

So reason outsiders, and are convinced of the result before the experiment is made.

But Philip could not reason, or could not yield to reason; and so he complained and reproached.

She did not much answer him; but he thought that her eyes expressed the old words,-- 'It's not in me to forgive; I sometimes think it's not in me to forget.' However, it is an old story, an ascertained fact, that, even in the most tender and stable masculine natures, at the supremest season of their lives, there is room for other thoughts and passions than such as are connected with love.