She was standing before a window, against the background of the rain-burdened April sky. I said I hadn’t been at the Royal Society soiree for four years, and got him to tell me about some of the fresh Mendelian work. Supposing they find you and take you away?—and she unprepared? Have you thought of that? Why did you marry her?" "God alone knows!" "And you don't love her! What kind of a woman do you want, anyhow?"—with rising anger. It may be treacherous, it may lay up a store of future woe; but it insures present happiness, and that is sufficient.
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