She could still remember his face, the perpetually wet lips that turned down at the sides, his drooping Roman eyes. It occurred to Ann Veronica once that she had known him when he was younger, but day had followed day, and each had largely obliterated the impression of its predecessor. The very old lady in the antimacassar touched Ann Veronica’s arm suddenly, and said, in a deep, arch voice: “Talking of love again; spring again, love again. A skeleton was propped against the mantelpiece. But I'll not believe it of you. To Capes he was almost deferential, and she had never seen him deferential in the old time, never. We do not remember to have met with a single individual, reported to be under petticoat government, who was not content with his lot,—nay, who so far from repining, did not exult in his servitude; and we see no way of accounting for this apparently inexplicable conduct—for which, among other phenomena of married life, various reasons have been assigned, though none entirely satisfactory to us—except upon the ground that these domineering dames possess some charm sufficiently strong to counteract the irritating effect of their tempers; some secret and attractive quality of which the world at large is in ignorance, and with which their husbands alone can be supposed to be acquainted. “She cannot be aware,” he continued, “that she is making herself conspicuous. Perhaps there were experiences she would never confide to any man. Your aunt liked the pheasant. He had heard this talk before.
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