There is no time at which what the Italians call _la figlia
della Morte_ lays her cold hand upon a man more awfully than during the
first half hour that he is alone with a woman whom he has married but
never genuinely loved.
Death's daughter did not spare Theobald. He had behaved very well
hitherto. When Christina had offered to let him go, he had stuck to his
post with a magnanimity on which he had plumed himself ever since. From
that time forward he had said to himself: "I, at any rate, am the very
soul of honour; I am not," etc., etc. True, at the moment of magnanimity
the actual cash payment, so to speak, was still distant; when his father
gave formal consent to his marriage things began to look more serious;
when the college living had fallen vacant and been accepted they looked
more serious still; but when Christina actually named the day, then
Theobald's heart fainted within him.
The engagement had gone on so long that he had got into a groove, and the
prospect of change was disconcerting. Christina and he had got on, he
thought to himself, very nicely for a great number of years; why--why--why
should they not continue to go on as they were doing now for the rest of
their lives? But there was no more chance of escape for him than for the
sheep which is being driven to the butcher's back premises, and like the
sheep he felt that there was nothing to be gained by resistance, so he
made none.
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