CHAPTER XXIX.
Mrs.Cricklander, at Carlsbad, was not altogether pleased to receive the news of her _fiance's_ accession to fortune.

She realized that John Derringham was not the sort of man to give up his will to any woman unless the woman had entirely the whip hand, as she would have had if he had been dependent upon her for the financial aid wherewith to obtain his ambitions.

She would have practically no hold over him now, and, when he was well, he was so attractive that she might even grow to care too deeply for him for her own welfare.

To allow herself to become in love with a husband who was answerable to her for his very food and lodging, and whom she could punish and keep in bondage when she pleased, was quite a different matter to experiencing that emotion towards an imperious, independent creature going his own way, and even, perhaps, compelling her to conform to his.
"How stupid of the old man, Mr.Scroope, to have married so late!" she said to herself, as usual finding everyone wrong who in any way interfered with her wishes.
John Derringham's letters--only two a week she received from him--were his usual masterpieces of style, and in them he employed his skill to say everything--and nothing.
She felt pleased as she read, and then resentful when she thought over them.

He had never once used a word of personal endearment, although the letters were beautifully expressed.