Her life was a series
of petty sacrifices and baulked enjoyments. If her carriage
were at the door, she was never certain that she would not
have to send it away; if she had asked some friends to her
house, the chances were she would have to put them off; if she
were reading a novel, Lord Marney asked her to copy a letter;
if she were going to the opera, she found that Lord Marney had
got seats for her and some friend in the House of Lords, and
seemed expecting the strongest expressions of delight and
gratitude from her for his unasked and inconvenient kindness.
Lady Marney had struggled against this tyranny in the earlier
days of their union. Innocent, inexperienced Lady Marney! As
if it were possible for a wife to contend against a selfish
husband, at once sharp-witted and blunt-hearted! She had
appealed to him, she had even reproached him; she had wept,
once she had knelt. But Lord Marney looked upon these
demonstrations as the disordered sensibility of a girl unused
to the marriage state, and ignorant of the wise authority of
husbands, of which he deemed himself a model. And so, after a
due course of initiation, Lady Marney invisible for days,
plunged in remorseful reveries in the mysteries of her
boudoir, and her lord dining at his club and going to the
minor theatres; the countess was broken in, and became the
perfect wife of a perfect husband.
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