y in all these feelings;--but then that
something was alloyed by much that was ignoble. He had resolved that
were she to come back to him she must come acknowledging the depth of
her sin. He would endeavour to forgive though he could not forget;
but he never thought to himself in these hours that it would be well
for him to be gracious in his manner of forgiveness. To go to her and
fetch her home to him, and say to her that all that was past should
be as a dream, a sad and ugly dream, but one to which no reality was
attached, never occurred to him. He must still be the master, and, in
order that his masterdom might be assured, full and abject confession
must be made. Yet he had such an idea of his wife, that he felt that
no such confession would be forthcoming, and therefore to him it
appeared ever more and more impossible that they two should again
come together.

With Cecilia the matter was regarded with very different eyes. To
her, too, it was apparent that she had been treated with extremest
cruelty. She, too, was very hot in her anger. In discussing
the matter with herself, she allowed herself thoughts in which
indignation against her husband was maintained at a boiling heat. But
nevertheless she had quite resolved to forgive him altogether if he
would once come to her. And to insure her forgiveness no word even
of apology should be necessary. She knew that she would have to deal
with a man to whom the speaking of such words would be painful, and
none should be expected, none asked for. If he would but show her
that he still loved her, that should suffice. The world around them
would of course know that she had been sent away from him, and then
taken back. There was in this much that was painful,--a feeling
full of dismay as she reflected that all her friends, that her
acquaintance, that the very servants should know that she had been so
disgraced. But of all that she would take no notice,--no notice as
far as the outside world was concerned. Let them think, let them talk
as they would, she would then have her one great treasure with which
to console herself, and that treasure, if once more her own, would
suffice for her happiness. In her hottest anger she told herself from
time to time that her anger would all depart from her,--that it would
be made to vanish from her as by a magician's wand,--if she could
only once more be allowed to feel his arm round her waist.

In all this she had no friend with whom to disc