Of his utter
failure to provide their daily living she confessed herself by every
implication, simply--proud! What else should a demigod's wife expect? At
the same time, without any direct statement, she made it clear that she
had no disdain, but only the broadest charity, for men who make a living.
It was odd how few her smiles were, and droll how much sweetness--what a
sane winsomeness--she managed to radiate without them. I left her in her
clean, bright cottage, like a nesting bird in a flowery bush, and entered
my own home, declaring, with what I was gently told was unnecessary
enthusiasm, that the Baron's wife was the "unluckily married" one, and the
best piece of luck her husband had ever had. I had seen women make a
virtue of necessity, but I had never before seen one make a conviction,
comfort, and joy of it, and I should try to like the Baron, I said, if
only for her sake.
Of course I became, in some degree, a source of revenue to him.
Understand, there was always a genuine exchange of so much for so much; he
was not a "baraseet"--oh, no!--yet he hung on. We still have, stowed
somewhere, a large case of butterflies, another of splendid moths, and a
smaller one of glistening beetles.
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