what happened, I believe that I must say something.”
“If you think anything, pray say it,” said Glencora.
“It is not always easy for a man to show what he thinks by what he says,” he replied. “My fear is that you should suppose me to think more than I do. And it was for that reason that I determined to sleep on it before I spoke to you.”
“If anybody is angry with me I’d much rather they should have it out with me while their anger is hot. I hate cold anger.”
“But I am not angry.”
“That’s what husbands always say when they’re going to scold.”
“But I am not going to scold. I am only going to advise you.”
“I’d sooner be scolded. Advice is to anger just what cold anger is to hot.”
“But, my dear Glencora, surely if I find it necessary to speak—”
“I don’t want to stop you, Plantagenet. Pray, go on. Only it will be so nice to have it over.”
He was now more than ever averse to the task before him. Husbands, when they give their wives a talking, should do it out of hand, uttering their words hard, sharp, and quick,—and should then go. There are some works that won’t bear a preface, and this work of marital fault-finding is one of them. Mr Palliser was already beginning to find out the truth of this. “Glencora,” he said, “I wish you to be serious with me.”
“I am very serious,” she replied, as she settled herself in her chair with an air of mockery, while her eyes and mouth were bright and eloquent with a spirit which her husband did not love to see. Poor girl! There was seriousness enough in store for her before she would be able to leave the room.
“You ought to be serious. Do you know why Mrs Marsham came here from Lady Monk’s last night?”
“Of course I do. She came to tell you that I was waltzing with Burgo Fitzgerald. You might as well ask me whether I knew why Mr Bott was standing at all the doors, glaring at me.”
“I don’t know anything about Mr Bott.”
“I know something about him though,” she said, again moving herself in her chair.
“I am speaking now of Mrs Marsham.”
“You should speak of them both together as they hunt in couples.”
“Glencora, will you listen to me, or will you not? If you say that you will not, I shall know what to do.”
“I don’t think you would, Plantagenet.” And she nodded her little head at him, as she spoke. “I’m sure I don’t know what you would do. But I will listen to you. Only, as I said before, it will be very nice when it’s over.”
“Mrs Marsham came here, not simply to tell me that you were waltzing with Mr Fitzgerald,—and I wish that when you mention his name you would call him Mr Fitzgerald.”
“So I do.”
“You generally prefix his Christian name, which it would be much better that you should omit.”
“I will try,” she said, very gently; “but it’s hard to drop an old habit. Before you married me you knew that I had learned to call him Burgo.”
“Let me go on,” said Mr Palliser.
“Oh, certainly.”
“It was not simply to tell me that you were waltzing that Mrs Marsham came here.”
“And it was not simply to see me waltzing that Mr Bott stood in the doorways, for he followed me about, and came down after me to the supper-room.”
“Glencora, will you oblige me by not speaking of Mr Bott?”
“I wish you would oblige me by not speaking of Mrs Marsham.” Mr Palliser rose quickly from his chair with a gesture of anger, stood upright for half a minute, and then sat down again. “I beg your pardon, Plantagenet,” she said. “I think I know what you want, and I’ll hold my tongue till you bid me speak.”
“Mrs Marsham came here because she saw that every one in the room was regarding you with wonder.” Lady Glencora twisted herself about in her chair, but she said nothing. “She saw that you were not only dancing with Mr Fitzgerald, but that you were dancing with him,—what shall I say?”
“Upon my word I can’t tell you.”
“Recklessly.”
“Oh! recklessly, was I? What was I reckless of?”
“Reckless of what people might say; reckless of what I might feel about it; reckless of your own position.”
“Am I to speak now?”
“Perhaps you had better let me go on. I think she was right to come to me.”
“That’s of course. What’s the good of having spies, if they don’t run and tell as soon as they see anything, especially anything—reckless.”
“Glencora, you are determined to make me angry. I am angry now,—very angry. I have employed no spies. When rumours have reached me, not from spies, as you choose to call them, but through your dearest friends and mine—”
“What do you mean by rumours from my dearest friends?”
“Never mind. Let me go on.”
“No; not when you say my dear friends have spread rumours about me. Tell me who they are. I have no dear friends. Do you mean Alice Vavasor?”
“It does not signify. But when I was warned that you had better not go to any house in which you could meet that man, I would not listen to it. I said that you were my wife, and that as such I could trust you anywhere, everywhere, with any person. Others might distrust you, but I would not do so. When I wished you to go to Monkshade, were there to be any spies there? When I left you last night at Lady Monk’s, do you believe in your heart that I trusted to Mrs Marsham’s eyes rather than to your own truth? Do you think that I have lived in fear of Mr Fitzgerald?”
“No, Plantagenet; I do not think so.”
“Do you believe that I have commissioned Mr Bott to watch your conduct? Answer me, Glencora.”
She paused a moment, thinking what actually was her true belief on that subject. “He does watch me, certainly,” she said.
“That does not answer my question. Do you believe that I have commissioned him to do so?”
“No; I do not.”
“Then it is ignoble in you to talk to me of spies. I have employed no spies. If it were ever to come to that, that I thought spies necessary, it would be all over with me.”
There was something of feeling in his voice as he said this,—something that almost approached to passion which touched his
