his arms in his energy,--"has in her
impetuous folly committed a grievous blunder, from which she would
not allow her husband to save her, this sum must be paid to the
wretched craven. But I cannot tell the world that. I cannot say
abroad that this small sacrifice of money was the justest means of
retrieving the injury which you had done."

"Say it abroad. Say it everywhere."

"No, Glencora."

"Do you think that I would have you spare me if it was my fault? And
how would it hurt me? Will it be new to any one that I have done a
foolish thing? Will the newspapers disturb my peace? I sometimes
think, Plantagenet, that I should have been the man, my skin is so
thick; and that you should have been the woman, yours is so tender."

"But it is not so."

"Take the advantage, nevertheless, of my toughness. Send him the L500
without a word,--or make Warburton do so, or Mr. Moreton. Make no
secret of it. Then if the papers talk about it--"

"A question might be asked about it in the House."

"Or if questioned in any way,--say that I did it. Tell the exact
truth. You are always saying that nothing but truth ever serves. Let
the truth serve now. I shall not blench. Your saying it all in the
House of Lords won't wound me half so much as your looking at me as
you did just now."

"Did I wound you? God knows I would not hurt you willingly."

"Never mind. Go on. I know you think that I have brought it all on
myself by my own wickedness. Pay this man the money, and then if
anything be said about it, explain that it was my fault, and say that
you paid the money because I had done wrong."

When he came in she had been seated on a sofa, which she constantly
used herself, and he had stood over her, masterful, imperious, and
almost tyrannical. She had felt his tyranny, but had resented it
less than usual,--or rather had been less determined in holding her
own against him and asserting herself as his equal,--because she
confessed to herself that she had injured him. She had, she thought,
done but little, but that which she had done had produced this
injury. So she had sat and endured the oppression of his standing
posture. But now he sat down by her, very close to her, and put his
hand upon her shoulder,--almost round her waist.

"Cora," he said, "you do not quite understand it."

"I never understand anything, I think," she answered.

"Not in this case,--perhaps never,--what it is that a husband feels
about his wife. Do you thin