did not know how to resent the
injury. And there was coming over her an idea, of which she herself
was hardly conscious, that after all, perhaps, the husband was not in
the right. She had come there with the general idea that wives, and
especially young wives, should be submissive. She had naturally taken
the husband's part; and having a preconceived dislike to Colonel
Osborne, she had been willing enough to think that precautionary
measures were necessary in reference to so eminent, and notorious,
and experienced a Lothario. She had never altogether loved Mrs.
Trevelyan, and had always been a little in dread of her. But she had
thought that the authority with which she would be invested on this
occasion, the manifest right on her side, and the undeniable truth of
her grand argument, that a wife should obey, would carry her, if not
easily, still successfully through all difficulties. It was probably
the case that Lady Milborough when preparing for her visit, had
anticipated a triumph. But when she had been closeted for an hour
with Mrs. Trevelyan, she found that she was not triumphant. She was
told that she was a messenger, and an unwelcome messenger; and she
began to feel that she did not know how she was to take herself away.

"I am sure I have done everything for the best," she said, getting up
from her chair.

"The best will be to send him back, and make him feel the truth."

"The best for you, my dear, will be to consider well what should be
the duty of a wife."

"I have considered, Lady Milborough. It cannot be a wife's duty to
acknowledge that she has been wrong in such a matter as this."

Then Lady Milborough made her curtsey and got herself away in some
manner that was sufficiently awkward, and Mrs. Trevelyan curtseyed
also as she rang the bell; and, though she was sore and wretched,
and, in truth, sadly frightened, she was not awkward. In that
encounter, so far as it had gone, she had been the victor.

As soon as she was alone and the carriage had been driven well away
from the door, Mrs. Trevelyan left the drawing-room and went up to
the nursery. As she entered she clothed her face with her sweetest
smile. "How is his own mother's dearest, dearest, darling duck?"
she said, putting out her arms and taking the boy from the nurse.
The child was at this time about ten months old, and was a strong,
hearty, happy infant, always laughing when he was awake and always
sleeping when he did not laugh, because his