MARIE sat lost in thought for a long time after the others had gone on. It was very peaceful out there on the links, and to-day there was hardly anybody about.
She wondered why it was that, no matter how hard she tried, she always seemed to find herself left alone and out of everything.
Did the fault lie in her own temperament, or was it merely that she was not physically strong enough to enter into things as other women did?
She knew that she was totally unsuited to be Chris' wife, and, knowing it, wondered why it was she had ever loved him so much; why things so often seemed to happen like that in life, without any apparent reason.
In spite of the subtle change in her feelings towards her husband, she never for a moment blamed him. It was Fate—one could not avoid these things, and she found herself wondering if Feathers would have been kinder and less selfish had he found himself in similar circumstances.
She looked down at his rough tweed coat lying across her lap. It was well worn and very shabby, much more shabby than any coat of her husband's. She smoothed the rough fabric with gentle fingers.
It was odd how blind women were, she thought; odd that an ugly face should so repel them that they never troubled to look beyond it and discover that it is possible for a heart of gold to lie hidden behind blunt features and an ungainly figure.
She had made the same mistake herself. She had adored her husband's 196 handsome face and proved to her bitter cost that alone it was unsatisfying and offered nothing in exchange for all her love.
What was to become of her? The bond of marriage which she had at first believed she could tolerate because she loved her fellow prisoner was now growing into a fetter, and she felt that she would give anything to be free of it.
She had thought herself miserable when Chris was away in Scotland, and yet she knew she had been happier then than she was now, when his presence in the house was a constant worry to her, and left her with an eternal sense of captivity.