ry of the incident itself.
Catherine's silence grew deeper and deeper; the conversation fell
entirely to Robert. At last Robert, by main force, as it were, got
Wardlaw off into politics, but the new Irish Coercion Bill was hardly
introduced before the irrepressible being turned to Catherine, and said
to her with smiling obtuseness--

'I don't believe I've seen you at one of your husband's Sunday addresses
yet, Mrs. Elsmere? And it isn't so far from this part of the world
either.'

Catherine slowly raised her beautiful large eyes upon him. Robert,
looking at her with a qualm, saw an expression he was learning to dread
flash across the face.

'I have my Sunday school at that time, Mr. Wardlaw. I am a Churchwoman.'

The tone had a touch of _hauteur_ Robert had hardly ever heard from his
wife before. It effectually stopped all further conversation. Wardlaw
fell into silence, reflecting that he had been a fool. His wife, with a
timid flush, drew out her knitting, and stuck to it for the twenty
minutes that remained. Catherine immediately did her best to talk, to be
pleasant; but the discomfort of the little party was too great. It broke
up at ten, and the Wardlaws departed.

Catherine stood on the rug while Elsmere went with his guests to the
door, waiting restlessly for her husband's return. Robert, however, came
back to her, tired, wounded, and out of spirits, feeling that the
attempt had been wholly unsuccessful, and shrinking from any further
talk about it. He at once sat down to some letters for the late post.
Catherine lingered a little, watching him, longing miserably, like any
girl of eighteen, to throw herself on his neck and reproach him for
their unhappiness, his friends--she knew not what! He all the time was
intimately conscious of her presence, of her pale beauty, which now at
twenty-nine, in spite of its severity, had a subtler finish and
attraction than ever, of the restless little movements so unlike
herself, which she made from time to time. But neither spoke except upon
indifferent things. Once more the difficult conditions of their lives
seemed too obvious, too oppressive. Both were ultimately conquered by
the same sore impulse to let speech alone.

CHAPTER XLII

And after this little scene, through the busy exciting weeks of the
season which followed, Robert, taxed to the utmost on all sides, yielded
to the impulse of silence more and more.

Society was another difficulty between them,