“And why must I not be angry with you?”

“You know what I mean.  You mustn’t be angry—­especially about this—­because I don’t want you to be.”

“That’s conclusive,” said he.  It was manifest to her that he was in a good humor, which was a great blessing.  He had not been tired with his work, as he was often wont to be, and was therefore willing to be playful.

“What do you think I’ve done?” said she.  “I have been to Bolton Street, and have seen Lady Ongar.”

“No!”

“I have, Theodore, indeed.”

Mr. Burton had been rubbing his face vehemently with a rough towel at the moment in which the communication had been made to him, and so strongly was he affected by it that he was stopped in his operation and brought to a stand in his movement, looking at his wife over the towel as he held it in both hands.  “What on earth has made you do such a thing as that?” he said.

“I thought it best.  I thought that I might hear the truth—­and so I have.  I could not bear that Florence should be sacrificed while any thing remained undone that was possible.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that you were going?”

“Well, my dear, I thought it better not.  Of course I ought to have told you, but in this instance I thought it best just to go without the fuss of mentioning it.”

“What you really mean is, that if you had told me I should have asked you not to go.”

“Exactly.”

“And you were determined to have your own way.”

“I don’t think, Theodore, I care so much about my own way as some women do.  I am sure I always think your opinion is better than my own—­that is, in most things.”

“And what did Lady Ongar say to you?” He had now put down the towel, and was seated in his arm-chair, looking up into his wife’s face.

“It would be a long story to tell you all that she said.”

“Was she civil to you?”

“She was not uncivil.  She is a handsome, proud woman, prone to speak out what she thinks, and determined to have her own way when it is possible; but I think that she intended to be civil to me personally.”

“What is her purpose now?”

“Her purpose is clear enough.  She means to marry Harry Clavering if she can get him.  She said so.  She made no secret of what her wishes are.”

“Then, Cissy, let her marry him; and do not let us trouble ourselves further in the matter.”

“But Florence, Theodore!  Think of Florence!”

“I am thinking of her, and I think that Harry Clavering is not worth her acceptance.  She is as the traveller that fell among thieves.  She is hurt and wounded, but not dead.  It is for you to be the good Samaritan, but the oil which you should pour into her wounds is not a renewed hope as to that worthless man.  Let Lady Ongar have him.  As far as I can see, they are fit for each other.”