. As
soon as the word had been spoken Trevelyan had left the room, and had
gone down among his books. But when he was alone, he knew that he
had insulted his wife. He was quite aware that he should have spoken
to her gently, and have explained to her, with his arm round her
waist, that it would be better for both of them that this friend's
friendship should be limited. There is so much in a turn of the eye
and in the tone given to a word when such things have to be said,--so
much more of importance than in the words themselves. As Trevelyan
thought of this, and remembered what his manner had been, how much
anger he had expressed, how far he had been from having his arm round
his wife's waist as he spoke to her, he almost made up his mind to
go up-stairs and to apologise. But he was one to whose nature the
giving of any apology was repulsive. He could not bear to have to own
himself to have been wrong. And then his wife had been most provoking
in her manner to him. When he had endeavoured to make her understand
his wishes by certain disparaging hints which he had thrown out as to
Colonel Osborne, saying that he was a dangerous man, one who did not
show his true character, a snake in the grass, a man without settled
principles, and such like, his wife had taken up the cudgels for her
friend, and had openly declared that she did not believe a word of
the things that were alleged against him. "But still, for all that,
it is true," the husband had said. "I have no doubt that you think
so," the wife had replied. "Men do believe evil of one another, very
often. But you must excuse me if I say that I think you are mistaken.
I have known Colonel Osborne much longer than you have done, Louis,
and papa has always had the highest opinion of him." Then Mr.
Trevelyan had become very angry, and had spoken those words which
he could not recall. As he walked to and fro among his books
down-stairs, he almost felt that he ought to beg his wife's pardon.
He knew his wife well enough to be sure that she would not forgive
him unless he did so. He would do so, he thought, but not exactly
now. A moment would come in which it might be easier than at present.
He would be able to assure her when he went up to dress for dinner,
that he had meant no harm. They were going out to dine at the house
of a lady of rank, the Countess Dowager of Milborough, a lady
standing high in the world's esteem, of whom his wife stood a little
in awe; and he calculate