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Oracle Database
Performance
and Scalability
quantitative software eng new cp_quantitative software eng cp.qxd 8/11/2011 12:06 PM Page 1
This practical series helps software developers, software engineers, systems engi-
neers, and graduate students understand and benefit from this convergence through
the unique weaving of software engineering case histories, quantitative analysis,
and technology into the project effort. You will find each publication reinforces the
series goal of assisting the reader with producing useful, well-engineered software
systems.
Henry H. Liu
Copyright Ó 2012 by John Wiley & Sons, Inc. All rights reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by
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Liu, Henry H.
Oracle database performance and scalability : a quantitative approach /Henry H. Liu.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-118-05699-8 (cloth)
1. Oracle (Computer file) 2. Database management. I. Title.
QA76.9.D3L5945 2012
005.75’65–dc23
2011017552
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To My Family
Contents
PREFACE xxv
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS xxxiii
INTRODUCTION 1
Features of Oracle / 2
Objectives / 4
Conventions / 5
Performance versus Scalability / 6
1 Basic Concepts 9
1.1 Standard versus Flavored SQLS / 10
1.2 Relational versus Object-Oriented Databases / 11
vii
viii CONTENTS
Recommended Reading / 73
Exercises / 74
INDEX 681
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engagement yet. Sucking-pig and one of the fat turkeys, and ask
Juke to join us. Eh?"
"My dear," I replied, "I am perfectly willing to celebrate the
engagement in any way you like—yes, we'll have a nice dinner, and
ask Dr. Juke—I am sure we owe him every attention that we can
possibly pay him; but what I want to warn you against is letting
them suppose that there is to be any celebration of the marriage—
with our consent."
Tom stared as if he did not understand.
"You mean, not immediately?" he questioned. "Of course not."
"I mean, not for years," I solemnly urged. "Tom, you must back me
up in this. The boy is but a boy, with his way to make in the world.
Before we allow him to saddle himself with a wife who will probably
be quite useless—those University women always are—and the
responsibilities of a family, he must be in a position to afford it."
"Yes," said Tom, in a tepid way. "But you and I, Polly——"
"Oh, never mind about you and me," I broke in; "that is altogether
different"—for of course it was. "You were a man of twice his age."
"Which would make him about fourteen," said my husband, trying to
be funny.
As for me, I saw nothing to laugh at. I cannot imagine a more
serious position as between parent and child. "At his time of life," I
said, "four years are equal to ten at any other stage. Let him have
those four years—let him begin where his father did—and I shall be
quite satisfied."
"Well, you see, my dear, it hardly rests with us, does it?"
Tom stirred up the mother sow with his walking-stick, and sniggered
in a most feeble-minded fashion.
"How? Why not?" I demanded. "Do you mean to say you have not
the power to influence him? Do you think that Harry, if properly
advised, would persist in taking his own way in spite of us? I refuse
to believe that any son of mine could do such a thing."
Again Tom laughed, looking at me as if he saw some great joke
somewhere. I asked him what it was, and he said, "Oh, never mind
—nothing." But I knew. He was thinking of my own elopement, to
which I was driven by my father's second marriage—an incident that
had no bearing whatever upon the present case. It exasperated me
to see him so flippant about a matter of really grave importance, but
I determined not to let him draw me into a dispute.
"Four years," I said mildly, "would give them time to know each
other and their own minds. It would be a test, to prove them. If at
the end of four years they were still faithful, I should feel assured
that all was well. But of course they would get tired of each other
long before that, and so he would be spared a terrible fate, and all
the trouble would be at an end."
We had left the pigsty and were pacing the paths of the kitchen
garden, surveying the depredations of the irrepressible slug.
"The rain seems to wash the soot away as fast as I put it on," sighed
Tom. "I'll get a bag of lime, and try what that'll do. Well, Polly, for
my part, I should be very sorry to think them likely to get tired of
each other. And I don't believe it, either. I don't think she's that sort
of a girl somehow."
"How like a man!" I ejaculated. "Just because she's got a pretty
face!"
"No, not because she's got a pretty face—though it is a pretty face—
but because she's good as well as pretty. She's a right down good
girl, my dear, believe me—just the sort of daughter-in-law I'd have
chosen for myself, if I had had the choosing. I told Harry so. You
should have seen how pleased he was!"
"No doubt. But I don't see how you can know whether she's good or
not. You are not always with her, as we are."
"Oh, I see her at times. We have little talks occasionally. A man can
soon tell." He put his arm round my waist as we paced along. "I
haven't been married to you for all these years without knowing a
good woman from a bad one, Polly."
It was intended for a compliment, but somehow I could not smile at
it. In fact, I shed a tear instead. And when he saw it, and stooped to
kiss it away, my feelings overcame me. I threw my arms round his
neck and begged him not to let fascinating daughters-in-law draw
away his heart from his old wife. I daresay it was silly, but I could
not help it. Of course he chuckled as if I had said something very
funny. And his only reply was "Baby!"—in italics. So like a man, who
never can see a meaning that is not right on the top of a word.
However, I promised to be nice to Emily—nicer, rather, for, as I told
him, I had always been nice to her—and he said he would take an
early opportunity to have a serious talk with Harry.
"But let the poor chap alone till he gets his strength again," he
pleaded—as if I were a perfect tyrant, bent on making the boy
miserable; "let the poor children enjoy their love-making for the little
while that Emily remains here. She has been telling me that she's
got a fine appointment in a school—joint principal—and that she's
going to work in a fortnight—to work and save for their little home,
till Harry is ready for her."
"What?" I exclaimed. "She never told me that."
"She will, of course, when you give her the chance," said Tom, with
an air of apology.
"She ought to have told me, she ought to have confided in me, first
of all," I urged, much hurt, as I had every right to be; "I can't
understand why she did not. You seem," I concluded passionately
—"you all seem to be having secrets behind my back, and shutting
me out of everything, as if I were everybody's enemy. It is always
so!"
"It is never so," replied Tom, laying his arm round my shoulder. "You
are never outside, old girl, except when you won't come in."
That was what they always said when they wanted to defend
themselves.
But here we dropped the painful subject, and discussed the details
of our proposed festival.
"Only Juke?" I inquired, counting on my fingers. "That makes seven
in all—an awkward number."
"No matter for a family party," said Tom. "We are not going in for
style this time. The boy in his armchair and pillows will take the
room of two."
"Still, we may as well make it an even eight," I urged. "Otherwise
the table will look lopsided, and one or other of the girls will have
nobody to talk to."
"They will be quite satisfied to have their brother to look at. No, no,
Polly, don't let us make a company affair of it, for goodness' sake.
Harry wouldn't like it, or be fit for it either."
"And isn't Juke company?"
"By Heavens, no! We owe it to that young fellow that our only son
isn't in his grave—yes, Polly, I am convinced of it—and my house is
his, and all that's in it. Besides, he'll be here professionally—to see
that Harry doesn't overeat himself. Oh, Juke is quite another pair of
shoes."
I certainly did not see it. He had served us well, no doubt, and we
had paid him well; each side had done its part in a generous and
conscientious spirit. I considered he had no more claim on us now
than the thousands of passengers Tom had carried when he was a
sea captain had on him. I am sure no doctor in the world can match
a ship's commander of the most common type for self-denying
devotion to the cause of duty. But, seeing Tom so inclined to be
cross and unreasonable, I thought it better to say no more. We
returned to the sty to select the piglet that was to be killed, and in
my own mind I selected the guest who should make the table
symmetrical. I knew that Harry would only rejoice to see another
friend, and it was due to Phyllis to provide her as well as the others
with a companion. It was also an opportunity which I did not feel it
right to miss for serving her interests in other ways.
I am not one of those vulgar match-makers who are the laughing-
stock of the young men, and properly so—quite the contrary, indeed:
no one can accuse me of scheming to get my daughters married.
Still, they must be married some day—or should be, in the order of
nature—and surely to goodness a mother is permitted to safeguard,
to some extent, a thoughtless and ignorant girl against the greatest
of all the perils that her inexperience of life can expose her to. Not
for the world would I force her inclination in any way, but there is a
difference between doing that and letting her make a fool of herself
with the first casual puppy in coat and trousers that crosses her
path. The duty of parents is to protect their adolescent children from
themselves, as it were, in this incalculably important matter; that is
to say, to keep their path clear of acquaintanceships from which
undesirable complications might result, while encouraging innocent
friendships that may develop with impunity. Otherwise, what's the
use of being parents at all? Your children might as well be orphans,
and better. I neglected this duty, certainly, when I allowed Harry and
Emily Blount to have access to each other; but then a son is not like
a daughter—you can't be always overlooking him—and that affair
was a lesson to me. I determined to be more vigilant in Phyllis's
case.
Phyllis is not like other girls. I think I may say, without a particle of
vanity, that she is the very prettiest in Australia, at the least. There
may be greater beauties at home—I don't know, it is so long since I
was there; but if there be, I should like to see them. Her features
are not classical, of course, and that dear little piquant suggestion of
a cast in the left eye is a peculiarity, though it is not a defect, any
more than are the freckles she gets in summer: these trifles of detail
merely go to make the tout-ensemble what it is—so charming that
she has but to enter a room to eclipse every other woman in it. This
being so, I was naturally anxious that she should marry, when she
did marry, into her proper sphere, and not be thrown away upon a
man unworthy of her. And I only took the most simple and necessary
precaution for her safety when I limited my invitations to young
fellows whom I could trust—like Spencer Gale.
Tom says I never had a good word for Spencer Gale until he made
his fortune in Broken Hills. It amuses Tom to make these reckless
statements, and it doesn't hurt me in the least. I always liked the
boy, but any fair-minded person must have acknowledged that his
change of circumstances had improved him—brushed him up, and
brightened him in every way. It was not his wealth that induced me
to throw him into my daughter's company, but his sterling personal
qualities. A better son never walked, excepting my own dear Harry—
that alone was enough for me; a good son never fails to make a
good husband, as everybody knows.
His sister was a friend and neighbour of mine, and I knew that he
was staying with her. At one time all the family had lived here, Mr.
Gale having Tom's fancy for amateur farming and market-gardening
in his leisure hours. Spencer and Harry, both being clerks in
Melbourne offices, used to go into town together of a morning; that
was how we came to know them. But when Spencer had some
shares given him which went to a ridiculous price directly afterwards,
and when his money, by all sorts of lucky chances, bred money at
such a rate that he was worth (they said) a quarter of a million in a
twelvemonth, then they all left this out-of-the-way suburb for a big
place in Toorak—all except Mary Gale, who married a poor
clergyman before the boom. Mary's husband, Mr. Welshman, was the
incumbent of our parish, and her good brother was not at all too
grand to pay her visits at intervals, besides helping her to educate
the children. Which proved conclusively that prosperity had not
spoiled him.
I walked to the parsonage on Friday afternoon, hoping to find him
there; but he was out, and I only saw Mrs. Welshman. I used to like
Mary Welshman in the old days, but she has become quite spoiled
since people began to make a fuss of her family on Spencer's
account. It is always the case—I have noticed it repeatedly; when
sudden wealth comes to those who have not been accustomed to it,
it is the girls whose heads are turned. I asked for Spencer, and
mentioned that we wished him to dine with us, and you would have
thought I was seeking an audience with a king from his lord
chamberlain.
"Oh, I don't know, I'm sure," she said, with her absurd airs of
importance. "He is so much in request everywhere. He is certain to
have a dozen engagements. I don't think you have the remotest
chance of getting him, Mrs. Braye, on such short notice."
The fact was that she did not want me to get him. She had the fixed
delusion—all the Gales had—that there wasn't a mother or daughter
in the country who was not plotting to catch him for matrimonial
purposes; and she let me see very plainly her suspicion of my
motives and her fear of Phyllis's power.
"To-night," she exclaimed, in a tone of triumph—"to-night he is
dining at the Melbourne Club, to meet the Governor." Poor thing! It
was amusing to see how proud she was of it—evidently bursting to
proclaim the news to all and sundry.
"Very well," I said, smiling, "I will just drop a note to him at the
club."
And then I turned the conversation upon parish matters, as the best
way of taking the conceit out of her. For I don't believe in
clergymen's wives setting themselves up to patronise their lady
parishioners, on whose favour and subscriptions (to put it coarsely)
their husbands' livelihood depends.
On my way home I was fortunate enough to encounter Spencer Gale
himself. He was looking very well and handsome, riding a
magnificent horse, which curveted and pranced all over the road
when he checked its gallop in obedience to my uplifted hand. I felt a
thrill of maternal pride as I gazed at him—of maternal anxiety also.
"My boy," I cried, "do pray be careful! Remember what happened to
poor Harry from this sort of rashness, and what a valuable life it is
that you are risking!"
"Oh, it's all right, Mrs. Braye," he responded, in his nice, cheerful
way. "It is only oats and high spirits. How's Harry? Getting along like
a house afire, Mary tells me. I'm awfully glad."
Dear fellow! His kindness touched me to the heart. I suppose he was
afraid to dismount from that obstreperous beast, lest he should lose
control of it, and I am sure he could not help the way it tried to
trample on me with its hind legs when I came near enough to talk.
I told him how beautifully Harry was doing, and how he was to have
his first dinner with us on Sunday, and how delighted he would be to
see an old friend on such an occasion—and so on. Spencer seemed
not to understand me for a moment, owing to the clatter of the
horse, for he said he could not come because he was going to dine
with the Governor at the Melbourne Club.
"But that is to-night," I called. "And we want you for the day after
to-morrow—Sunday. Just a simple family meal at half-past one—pot-
luck, you know."
He did not answer for some minutes—thinking over his
engagements, doubtless; then he asked whether all of us were at
home. Aha! I knew what that meant, though of course I pretended I
didn't. I said that no member of the family would be so heartless as
to absent herself from such a festival as Harry's first dinner; that, on
the contrary, his sister was more devoted to him, and far more
indispensable both to him and to the house than a dozen hospital
nurses. I described in a few words what Phyllis had been to us
during our time of trouble, and he smiled with pleasure. And of
course he consented to accept the casual invitation for her sake,
pretending reluctance just to save appearances. It was arranged that
he would be at his sister's on Sunday, and walk back with us after
morning service.
I told Tom in the evening, when he was sitting in the garden with his
pipe, in a good temper. You would have supposed I was announcing
some dreadful domestic calamity.
"Whatever for?" he grumbled, with a most injured air. "I thought we
were to be a comfortable family party, just ourselves, and no fuss at
all."
"There will be no fuss," I said, "unless you make it. He is just coming
in a friendly, informal manner, to fill the vacant place. If you will
have Dr. Juke, there must be another man to balance the table."
"But why that man? You know Harry can't bear him since he's got so
uppish about his money and his swell friends. Why not have
somebody of our own class?—though I think it perfectly unnecessary
to have anybody under the circumstances."
"Our own class!" I indignantly exclaimed. "I hope you don't insult
your children, not to speak of me, by implying that they are not
good enough for Gales to associate with?"
"They are," said Tom; "they are—and a lot too good for one Gale to
associate with. But he don't think so, Polly."
"If he did not, would he do it?" was my unanswerable retort. But it is
useless trying to argue with a prejudiced man who is determined not
to see reason. And I felt it wise to leave him before he could draw
me into a dispute.
Harry, however, was equally exasperating. He said, "Oh, then I shall
make it Monday, if you don't mind. Better a dinner of herbs on
washing-day in peace and comfort than a stalled ox on Sunday with
Spencer Gale to spoil one's appetite and digestion for it." But Emily
rebuked him on my behalf. She had but to look at him to make him
do what she wished, and I suppose she thought it good policy to
propitiate the future mother-in-law.
Phyllis, whom I had expected to please—for whose sake I had gone
to all this trouble—was simply insolent. Alas! it is the tendency of
girls in these days. Respect for parents, trust in their judgment and
deference to their wishes, all the modest, dutiful ways that were the
rule when I was young, seem quite to have gone out of fashion. You
would have thought that she was the mother and I the daughter if
you had heard how she spoke to me, and seen the superior air with
which she stood over me to signify her royal displeasure.
"Oh, well, you have just gone and spoilt the whole thing—that's all."
I could have cried with mortification. But then, what's the use? It is
only what wives and mothers must expect when they try to do their
best for their families.
I had another struggle with her on Sunday morning. She refused to
accompany us to church. She said she was not going to offer herself
to Spencer Gale as a companion for a half-hour's walk—that he was
quite conceited enough without that; if other girls chose to run after
him and spoil him, she didn't. As if I would ask her to run after any
man! And as if Emily or I could not have walked home with our
guest! But I learned a little later what all this prudishness amounted
to. When we came back from church—Emily, Lily, Spencer, and I—we
found an empty drawing-room, Harry and Tom in armchairs on the
verandah, and Phyllis away in the kitchen garden gathering
strawberries for dessert with Dr. Juke! And I discovered that that
young man had interpreted an invitation to lunch at half-past one as
meaning that he should arrive punctually at twelve. Tom pretended
that he had called professionally at that hour, and been persuaded to
put his buggy up in our stables and remain.
"And I suppose you persuaded him?" I said, trying—because
Spencer was standing by me—to keep what I felt out of my voice.
"Well, my dear," replied the fatuous man, "the truth is, he didn't
want much pressing."
There are times when I feel that I could shake Tom, he is so
wooden-headed and silly—though so dear.
However, Phyllis, when I called her in, greeted Spencer Gale with
proper cordiality; and the whole family behaved better than I had
expected they would. They seemed to lay themselves out to be
pleasant all round, and to make Harry's first day downstairs a happy
one. It was a delightful early-summer day—he could not have had a
better—and our pretty home was looking its prettiest, for we had
had nice rains that year. Phyllis had decorated the table beautifully
with roses, and Jane had surpassed herself in cooking the dinner.
The pig was done to a turn—I never tasted anything so delicious—
and the turkey was a picture. We had our own green peas and
asparagus and young potatoes, and our own cream whipped in the
meringues and coffee jelly—in short, it was as good a dinner as any
millionaire could wish for, and in the end everything seemed to go as
I had intended it should.
Harry was no trouble at all. I purposely put him at his father's end of
the table, with Emily between him and Juke, to pacify him; and, with
his young lady at his side and Spencer as far off as possible, the
dear boy was as gay and good-tempered as could be, quite the life
of the party. Spencer sat between me and Phyllis, and she really
seemed to devote herself to him. I was surprised to see how little
fear she evidently had of appearing to throw herself at his head, like
the other girls; she chattered and joked to him—the prettiest colour
and animation in her face—and hardly glanced at Juke opposite,
who, for his part, confined his attentions to his neighbours, Miss
Blount and me, and was particularly unobtrusive and quiet.
As for Spencer Gale, he was most interesting in his descriptions of
what he had seen and done during his recent European travels; it
was quite an education to listen to him. I was particularly pleased
that he was so ready to talk on this subject, because I hate to have
the children grow up narrow-minded and provincial, ignorant of the
world outside their colony. It has been the dream of my life to take
them home and give them advantages, and I have never been able
to realise it. I could not help thinking, as that young man discoursed
of Paris and Venice and all the rest of it, what a delightful
honeymoon his bride might have! And so she did, as it turned out,
no great while afterwards.
Harry yawned and fidgeted, for sitting long in one position tired him;
so Tom and Juke carried him to a cane lounge on the verandah
before the rest of us had had dessert. I was annoyed with Phyllis for
running out to get pillows, which were already there, and for not
returning when she had made her brother comfortable. Emily had
the grace to remain at table, and of course Lily stayed also. She is a
most intelligent child, voracious for information of all sorts; and she
plied our guest with so many questions, and amused him so much
by her interest in his adventures, that she made him forget the
strawberries on his plate and how time was going—forgetting herself
that the poor servants were wanting to clear away so that they
might get out for their Sunday walk.
At last he finished, and I led the way to the verandah, where I
expected to find the others. But only Harry and his father were
there, the boy looking rather fagged and inclined to doze, and Tom—
who has no manners—placidly sucking at his pipe.
"Why, where is Phyllis?" I inquired.
"Kitchen," said Harry promptly, opening his eyes.
"And the doctor?"
"Gone off to a patient."
"Then," said I, "come and let me show you my roses, Mr. Gale;" and
I took his arm. I thought it a good opportunity to have a little quiet
talk with him on my own account. Afterwards I remembered that my
husband and son watched us rather anxiously as we sauntered off
into the garden, but I did not notice it at the time. It never crossed
my mind that they could deliberately conspire to deceive me.
I had had the garden tidied, and, in the first flush of the summer
bloom, it looked really beautiful—although I say it. I would not have
been ashamed to show it to the Queen herself. And our rustic
cottage, that we had continually been adding to and improving ever
since it came, a mere shanty, into our hands, was a study for a
painter, with the yellow banksia in perfection, quite hiding the
framework of the verandah. I halted my companion on the front
lawn, at the prettiest point of view.
"A humble little place," I remarked; "but I think I may say for it,
without undue vanity, that it looks like the home of gentlefolks."
He followed my gaze, and fixed his eyes upon the particular window
which I informed him belonged to Phyllis's room.
"What's she doing?" he inquired bluntly. He could not conceal his
impatience for her return.
I told him that, in the case of so variously useful a person, it was
impossible to say. I had no doubt she was attending to
housekeeping matters, which she never neglected for her own
amusement. Then I threw out a feeler or two, to test him—to learn,
if possible, something of his tastes and character; it was necessary,
for her sake, to do so. And I was delighted to find that he shared my
opinion of the colonial girl as a type, and agreed with me that the
term "unprotected female" should in these days be altered to
"unprotected male," seeing that it was the women who did all the
courting, and the men who were exposed to masked batteries, as it
were, at every turn.
"A fellow's never safe till he's married," said the poor boy, doubtless
speaking from painful experience. "And not then."
"That depends," said I. "There are people—I know plenty—who,
having married dolls like those we have been speaking of, find
themselves far indeed from being safe; but choose a good, modest,
clever, loving girl, who has been well brought up—one devoted to
her home and unspoiled by a vulgar society—and it is quite another
pair of shoes, as my husband would say. By the way, ask him what
he thinks of marriage for young men."
"I don't know that I want to ask anybody anything," he returned, a
little irritably—for Phyllis was still invisible—"except to leave me
alone to do as I like. I don't believe in having wives selected for me,
Mrs. Braye; I'm always telling my mother and sisters that, and they
won't pay the least attention. I think a fellow might be allowed to
please himself, especially a fellow in my position."
"Certainly," I said, with all the emphasis I could command. "Most
certainly. That is my own view exactly. I have always said that, in
respect of my own children, I would never force or thwart them in
any way. I chose the one I loved, regardless of wealth or poverty,
and they shall do the same. More than that," I added gaily, "I am
going to be the most charming mother-in-law that ever was! I shall
quite redeem the character. I will never attempt to interfere with my
children's households—never be de trop—never—oh! Why, there she
is!"
We were turning into a quiet path between tall shrubs—the fatal
place where, as I was told, Harry had been entrapped—and I
suddenly saw the gleam of a white dress in a little bower at the end
of it. At the same moment I saw—so did Spencer Gale—a thing that
petrified us both. I was struck speechless, but his emotion forced
him to hysteric laughter.
"I'm afraid," said he, recovering himself, "that we are de trop this
time, at any rate."
"Not at all," I retorted, also rallying my self-command. "Not at all.
We don't have anything of that sort in this family."
But the facts were too palpable; it was useless pretending to ignore
them. Phyllis jumped out of the arbour, like an alarmed bird out of
its nest, and came strolling towards us, affecting a nonchalant air,
but with a face the colour of beetroot with confusion; and that
unspeakable doctor, who had caused her so to forget herself,
strutted at her side, twirling the tip of his moustache and
endeavouring to appear as if he had not been kissing her, but
looking all the time the very image of detected guilt.
It is not necessary to state that Spencer Gale left immediately, and
never darkened our doors again. When, a little later, I had it out with
Phyllis, she declared, with a toss of the head, that she wouldn't have
taken him if there had been no other marriageable man living—that
there was only one husband for her, whom she intended to have
whether we liked it or not, even if she were forced to wait for him till
she was an old woman. I have often regretted that I did not control
myself better, but she, who had no excuse for violence, behaved like
a perfect lunatic. She went so far as to say she would never forgive
me for the insults I had heaped upon one—meaning Edmund Juke—
who had no equal in the universe, and who had saved her brother's
life. Of course she did not mean it—and I did not mean it—and we
forgave each other long ago; but I never hear the name of Spencer
Gale without the memory of that interview coming back to me, like a
bitter taste in the mouth.
He married about the same time as she did—a significant
circumstance! They say that he lost his boom money when the boom
burst, and that he drinks rather badly, and makes domestic scandals
of various kinds. If he does, it is no more than one might have
expected, considering the provocation. It is all very well for my
family to repeat these tales to his discredit, and then point to
Edmund Juke in Collins Street gradually climbing to the top of his
profession; they think this is sufficient to prove that they were
always Solomons of wisdom, and I a fool of the first magnitude. It
does not occur to them that if some things had been different, all
things would have been different. The one man would never have
fallen into low habits if he had had Phyllis for his wife, and the other
would never have risen so high if he had not had her. That is how I
look at it. And as for material prosperity, no one could have foreseen
how things were going to turn out, and luck is like the rain that falls
on the just and on the unjust—it comes to the people who don't
deserve it quite as often as to those who do.
For my part, I pay no heed to malicious gossip. There are always
envious persons ready and anxious to pull down those who are
placed above them; if they cannot find a legitimate pretext, they
invent one. I see for myself that he still lives in his beautiful Kew
house, that his wife still leads the fashion at every important social
function and drives the finest turn-out in Melbourne; that does not
look as if they were so very poor. And if one could forgive infidelities
in a married man, it would be in the case of one tied to a painted
creature who evidently cares for nothing but display and admiration
—to have her photograph flaunted in the public streets, and herself
surrounded by a crowd of so-called smart people, flattering her
vanity for the sake of her husband's position. He may have a
handsome establishment, but he cannot have a home. So who can
wonder if he seeks comfort elsewhere, and flies to the bottle to
drown his grief? It would have been very, very different if my
beautiful Phyllis had been at the head of affairs.
However, if she is satisfied, it is not for me to say a word.
CHAPTER VIII.
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