And by-and-by the first shadow began to sweep over the fairness of her married life. It happened at a time when she and her husband were not quite so much together,--society and its various claims had naturally separated them a little, but now a question of political ambition separated them still more. Some well-intentioned friends had persuaded Sir Philip to stand for Parliament--and this idea no sooner entered his head, than he decided with impulsive ardor that he had been too long without a "career,"--and a "career" he must have in order to win distinction for his wife's sake. Therefore, summoning his secretary, Neville to his aid, he plunged headlong into the seething, turgid waters of English politics, and shut himself up in his library day after day, studying blue-books, writing and answering letters, and drawing up addresses,--and with the general proneness of the masculine mind to attend to one thing only at a time, he grew so absorbed in his work that his love for Thelma, though all unchanged and deep as ever, fell slightly into the background of his thoughts. Not that he neglected her,--he simply concerned himself more with other things. So it happened that a certain indefinable sense of loss weighed upon her,--a vague, uncomprehended solitude began to encompass her,--a solitude even more keenly felt when she was surrounded by friends than when she was quite alone,--and as the sweet English June drew to its end, she grew languid and listless, and her blue eyes often filled with sudden tears. Her little watch-dog, Britta, began to notice this, and to wonder concerning the reason of her mistress's altered looks.
"It is this dreadful London," thought Britta. "So hot and stifling--there's no fresh air for her. And all this going about to balls and parties and shows--no wonder she is tired out!"
But it was something more than mere fatigue that made Thelma's eyes look sometimes so anxious, so gravely meditative and earnest. One day she seemed so much abstracted and lost in painful musings that Britta's loving heart ached, and she watched her for some moments without venturing to say a word. At last she spoke out bravely-"Fröken!"--she paused,--Thelma seemed not to hear her. "Fröken!--has anything vexed or grieved you today?"
Thelma started nervously. "Vexed me--grieved me?" she repeated. "No, Britta--why do you ask?"
"You look very tired, dear Fröken," continued Britta gently. "You are not as bright as you were when we first came to London."