"The less said about Palmer's habits the better," flashed Christine. "I
appear to have married a bunch of habits."

She gave over her unpacking, and sat down listlessly by the fire, while
Anna moved about, busy with the small activities that delighted her.

Six weeks of Palmer's society in unlimited amounts had bored Christine to
distraction. She sat with folded hands and looked into a future that
seemed to include nothing but Palmer: Palmer asleep with his mouth open;
Palmer shaving before breakfast, and irritable until he had had his coffee;
Palmer yawning over the newspaper.

And there was a darker side to the picture than that. There was a vision
of Palmer slipping quietly into his room and falling into the heavy sleep,
not of drunkenness perhaps, but of drink. That had happened twice. She
knew now that it would happen again and again, as long as he lived.
Drinking leads to other things. The letter she had received on her wedding
day was burned into her brain. There would be that in the future too,
probably.

Christine was not without courage. She was making a brave clutch at
happiness. But that afternoon of the first day at home she was terrified.
She was glad when Anna went and left her alone by her fire.

But when she heard a step in the hall, she opened the door herself. She
had determined to meet Palmer with a smile. Tears brought nothing; she had
learned that already. Men liked smiling women and good cheer. "Daughters
of joy," they called girls like the one on the Avenue. So she opened the
door smiling.