Being a German, she put by money, and let her husband know it.

But in the seventh year of her enforced widowhood her letters began to undergo subtle changes, one after another.
First there were little exhibitions of impatience.

Then there were signs of languor and a diminution of gush.
Then there were stronger protestations of affection than ever.
Then there were mixed with these protestations queries whether the truest affection was not that which provided for the interests of the beloved person.
Then in the eighth year of Monckton's imprisonment she added to remarks of the above kind certain confessions that she was worn out with anxieties, and felt her lonely condition; that youth and beauty did not last forever; that she had let slip opportunities of doing herself substantial service, and him too, if he could look at things as coolly now as he used to; and she began to think she had done wrong.
This line once adopted was never given up, though it was accompanied once or twice with passionate expressions of regret at the vanity of long-cherished hopes.

Then came a letter, or two more in which the fair writer described herself as torn this way and that way, and not knowing what to do for the best, and inveighed against Fate.
Then came a long silence.
Then came a short letter imploring him, if he loved her as she loved him, to try and forget her, except as one who would always watch over his interests, and weep for him in secret.
"Crocodile!" said Monckton, with a cold sneer.
All this showed him it was his interest not to lose his hold on her.

So he always wrote to her in a beautiful strain of faith, affection, and constancy.
But this part of the comedy was cut short by the lady discontinuing the correspondence and concealing her address for years.
"Ah!" said Monckton, "she wants to cure me.