She was no exception to the rule that the wives of great inventors almost never properly appreciate them.

By the light of his success, breaking forth like the sun, she feared that the greatest error of her life had been made when she miscomprehended him.

In her dreams as well as her insomnia, it was Clemenceau that she beheld, and not the gallants who had flashed across her uneven path, not even the viscount, whose spoil was her nest-egg.

Alas! it was a mere atom to the solid ingot which her misunderstood husband's genius had ensured.

She had perhaps lost the substance in snapping at the shadow.
"Any way, I love my husband," she proceeded, moaning aloud, and resting her chin in the hollow of her hand--the elbow on the table, to which she had returned and where she was seated.