He felt that his own private joy and pride as her husband should have been perhaps sacred and respected by her and yet possibly she was right.

This public glory might have seemed to her the one which would the most appeal to him.
He had, as he had said, not read the book, but he recalled with a sort of rapturous tenderness for Margaret how he had seen the posters all along the railroad as he commuted to the city, and along the elevated road.

His face gazing at Margaret was as beautiful in its perfectly unselfish pride and affection, as a mother's.

To think that his darling had done such a thing! He longed to be at home alone with her and say to her what he could not say before all these people.

He thought of a very good reason why she had chosen this occasion to proclaim her authorship of the famous anonymous novel.