And then for a few moments he thought of his own home.  What had his wife done for him, that he should put himself out of his way to do much for her?  She had brought him no money.  She had added nothing, either by her wit, beauty, or rank, to his position in the world.  She had given him no heir.  What had he received from her that he should endure her commonplace conversation, and washed-out, dowdy prettinesses?  Perhaps some momentary feeling of compassion, some twinge of conscience, came across his heart, as he thought of it all; but if so he checked it instantly, in accordance with the teachings of his whole life, He had made his reflections on all these things, and had tutored his mind to certain resolutions, and would not allow himself to be carried away by any womanly softness.  She had her house, her carriage, her bed, her board, and her clothes; and seeing how very little she herself had contributed to the common fund, her husband determined that in having those things she had all that she had a right to claim.  Then he drank a glass of sherry, and went into the drawing-room with that hard smile upon his face, which he was accustomed to wear when he intended to signify to his wife that she might as well make the best of existing things, and not cause unnecessary trouble, by giving herself airs or assuming that she was unhappy.

He had his cup of coffee, and she had her cup of tea, and she made one or two little attempts at saying something special—­something that might lead to a word or two as to their parting; but she was careful and crafty, and she was awkward and timid—­and she failed.  He had hardly been there an hour, when looking at his watch he declared that it was ten o’clock, and that he would go to bed.  Well; perhaps it might be best to bring it to an end, and to go through this embrace, and have done with it!  Any tender word that was to be spoken on either side, it was now clear to her, must be spoken in that last farewell.  There was a tear in her eye as she rose to kiss him; but the tear was not there of her own good will, and she strove to get rid of it without his seeing it.  As he spoke he also rose, and having lit for himself a bed-candle, was ready to go.

“Good-by, Hermy,” he said, submitting himself; with the candle in his hand, to the inevitable embrace.

“Good-by, Hugh; and God bless you,” she said, putting her arms round his neck.  “Pray—­pray take care of yourself.”

“All right,” he said.  His position with the candle was awkward, and he wished that it might be over.

But she had a word prepared which she was determined to utter, poor, weak creature that she was.  She still had her arm round his shoulders, so that he could not escape without shaking her off; and her forehead was almost resting on his bosom.  “Hugh,” she said, “you must not be angry with me for what I said to you.”

“Very well,” said he; “I won’t.”

“And, Hugh,” said she, “of course I can’t like your going.”