"I know something of dogs. I have no experience of marriage.
But from time to time I put this question to myself: 'Here is a
widower--free, as he tells me, after twenty-seven years of
married life almost entirely spent at Wimbledon. It is
inconceivable that he did not, during that considerable period,
look at least once or twice across the table at the late Mrs.
Farrell and ask himself if the business was to go on for ever.'
I supposed, Roddy, that the two had been in love, as such
creatures feel the emotion. 'Well then,' thought I, 'here are
we two, the one hating and hiding his hate, thrown together in
constant companionship. How long will it take the other, who
has never cut an inch of the ice encasing that hatred, before he
finds my society intolerable?'
"That was the question; and I had the answer to-day.
"From Genoa we actually harked back to Cahors, for an aimless two
weeks among the upper waters of the Lot and the Tarn. I led him
over the roof of France, as they call it.
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