In society, Hannaford was an entertaining, sometimes a charming,
man, with a flow of well-informed talk, of agreeable anecdote; his
friends liked to have him at the dinner-table; he could never be at
a loss for a day or two's board and lodging when his home wearied
him. Under his own roof he seldom spoke save to find fault, rarely
showed anything but acrid countenance. He and his wife were
completely alienated; but for their child, they would long ago have
parted. It had been a love match, and the daughter's name, Olga,
still testified to the romance of their honeymoon; but that was
nearly twenty years gone by, and of these at least fifteen had been
spent in discord, concealed or flagrant. Mrs. Hannaford was
something of an artist; her husband spoke of all art with contempt
--except the great art of human slaughter. She liked the society of
foreigners; he, though a remarkable linguist, at heart distrusted
and despised all but English-speaking folk. As a girl in her teens,
she had been charmed by the man's virile accomplishments, his
soldierly bearing and gay talk of martial things, though Hannaford
was only a teacher of science. Nowadays she thought with dreary
wonder of that fascination, and had come to loathe every trapping
and habiliment of war. She knew him profoundly selfish, and
recognised the other faults which had hindered so clever a man from
success in life; indolent habits, moral untrustworthiness, and a
conceit which at times menaced insanity.
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