little? Because she loved the
man; loved him, though she now thought that she hated him. We very
rarely, I fancy, love those whose love we have not either possessed or
expected--or at any rate for whose love we have not hoped; but when it
has once existed, ill-usage will seldom destroy it. Angry as she was
with the man, ready as she was to complain of him, to rebel against
him--perhaps to separate herself from him forever, nevertheless she
found it to be a cruel grievance that she should not sit at table with
him on the morning of his going. "Jackson shall bring me a cup of coffee
as I'm dressing," he said, "and I'll breakfast at the club." She knew
there was no reason for this, except that breakfasting at his club was
more agreeable to him than breakfasting with his wife.

She had got rid of her tears before she came down to dinner, but still
she was melancholy and almost lachrymose. This was the last night, and
she felt that something special ought to be said; but she did not know
what she expected, or what it was that she herself wished to say. I
think that she was longing for an opportunity to forgive him--only that
he would not be forgiven. If he would have spoken one soft word to her,
she would have accepted that one word as an apology; but no such word
came. He sat opposite to her at dinner, drinking his wine and feeding
his dog; but he was no more gracious to her at this dinner than he had
been on any former day. She sat there pretending to eat, speaking a dull
word now and then, to which his answer was a monosyllable, looking out
at him from under her eyes, through the candlelight, to see whether any
feeling was moving him; and then having pretended to eat a couple of
strawberries she left him to himself. Still, however, this was not the
last. There would come some moment for an embrace--for some cold,
half-embrace, in which he would be forced to utter something of a
farewell.

He, when he was left alone, first turned his mind to the subject of Jack
Stuart and his yacht. He had on that day received a letter from a noble
friend--a friend so noble that he was able to take liberties even with
Sir Hugh Clavering--in which his noble friend had told him that he was a
fool to trust himself on so long an expedition in Jack Stuart's little
boat. Jack, the noble friend said, knew nothing of the matter, and as
for the masters who were hired for the sailing of such crafts, their
only object was to keep out as long as poss