I fell in love
with her--I really don't know why. It might have been because I was
perfectly idle, and had nothing else to do at the time. Or it might have
been because all my friends said she was the very last woman whom I ought
to think of marrying. On the surface, I must own, there is nothing in
common between Mrs. Fairbank and me. She is tall; she is dark; she is
nervous, excitable, romantic; in all her opinions she proceeds to
extremes. What could such a woman see in me? what could I see in her? I
know no more than you do. In some mysterious manner we exactly suit each
other. We have been man and wife for ten years, and our only regret is,
that we have no children. I don't know what you may think; I call
that--upon the whole--a happy marriage.
So much for ourselves. The next question is--what has brought us into the
inn yard? and why am I obliged to turn groom, and hold the horses?
We live for the most part in France--at the country house in which my wife
and I first met. Occasionally, by way of variety, we pay visits to my
friends in England. We are paying one of those visits now. Our host is an
old college friend of mine, possessed of a fine estate in Somersetshire;
and we have arrived at his house--called Farleigh Hall--toward the close
of the hunting season.
On the day of which I am now writing--destined to be a memorable day in
our calendar--the hounds meet at Farleigh Hall.
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