l her power of sympathising, began to feel that
she would almost prefer on any morning that her dear young friend,
Louis Trevelyan, should not be announced. Nevertheless, she always
saw him when he came, and administered comfort according to her
light. Of course he would have his wife back before long. That was
the only consolation she was able to offer; and she offered it so
often that he began gradually to feel that something might be done
towards bringing about so desirable an event. After what had occurred
they could not live again in Curzon Street,--nor even in London for
awhile; but Naples was open to them. Lady Milborough said so much to
him of the advantages which always came in such circumstances from
going to Naples, that he began to regard such a trip as almost the
natural conclusion of his adventure. But then there came that very
difficult question;--what step should be first taken? Lady Milborough
proposed that he should go boldly down to Nuncombe Putney, and make
the arrangement. "She will only be too glad to jump into your arms,"
said Lady Milborough. Trevelyan thought that if he went to Nuncombe
Putney, his wife might perhaps jump into his arms; but what would
come after that? How would he stand then in reference to his
authority? Would she own that she had been wrong? Would she promise
to behave better in future? He did not believe that she was yet
sufficiently broken in spirit to make any such promise. And he told
himself again and again that it would be absurd in him to allow her
to return to him without such subjection, after all that he had gone
through in defence of his marital rights. If he were to write to her
a long letter, argumentative, affectionate, exhaustive, it might be
better. He was inclined to believe of himself that he was good at
writing long, affectionate, argumentative, and exhaustive letters.
But he would not do even this as yet. He had broken up his house, and
scattered all his domestic gods to the winds, because she had behaved
badly to him; and the thing done was too important to allow of
redress being found so easily.

So he lived on a wretched life in London. He could hardly endure to
show himself at his club, fearing that every one would be talking of
him as the man who was separated from his wife,--perhaps as the man
of whose wife Colonel Osborne was the dear friend. No doubt for a day
or two there had been much of such conversation; but it had died away
from the club long