"I'd be doing her no injury," thought he.

"Her vanity would root out some explanation which would satisfy her that, whatever might be the cause, it wasn't lack of love for her on my part." But--To break off was unthinkable.

The invitations out; the arrangements for the wedding all made; quantities of presents arrived--"I've got to go through with it.

I've got to marry her," said Ross.

"But God help me, how I shall hate her!" And, stripped clean of the glamour of her wealth, she rose before him--her nose that was red and queer in the mornings; her little personal habits that got on the nerves, especially a covert self-infatuated smile that flitted over her face at any compliment, however obviously perfunctory; her way of talking about every trivial thing she did--and what did she do that was not trivial ?--as if some diarist ought to take it down for the delight of ages to come.