CHAPTER XX--NO. 5 CHEYNE ROW 



Frank had brought home the Life of Carlyle, and Maude had been dipping into it in the few spare half-hours which the many duties of a young housekeeper left her. At first it struck her as dry, but from the moment that she understood that this was, among other things, an account of the inner life of a husband and a wife, she became keenly interested, and a passionate and unreasonable partisan. For Frederick and Cromwell and the other great issues her feelings were tolerant but lukewarm. But the great sex-questions of 'How did he treat her?' and of 'How did she stand it?' filled her with that eternal and personal interest with which they affect every woman. Her gentle nature seldom disliked any one, but certainly amongst those whom she liked least, the gaunt figure of the Chelsea sage began to bulk largely. One night, as Frank sat reading in front of the fire, he suddenly found his wife on her knees upon the rug, and a pair of beseeching eyes upon his face. 

'Frank, dear, I want you to make me a promise.' 

'Well, what is it?' 

'Will you grant it?' 

'How can I tell you when I have not heard it?' 

'How horrid you are, Frank! A year ago you would have promised first and asked afterwards.' 

'But I am a shrewd old married man now. Well, let me hear it.' 

'I want you to promise me that you will never be a Carlyle.' 
Who said he was a shrewd old man now?
How horrid you are, Frank! A year ago you would have promised first and asked afterwards.' 

'But I am a shrewd old married man now. Well, let me hear it.' 