His wife eyed him with a look of unutterable contempt.  He submitted to it, but not in silence.

“A man doesn’t lie, Catherine, who makes such a confession as I am making now.  Miss Westerfield offers the one atonement in her power, while she is still innocent of having wronged you—­except in thought.”

“Is that all?” Mrs. Linley asked.

“It rests with you,” he replied, “to say if there is any other sacrifice of herself which will be more acceptable to you.”

“Let me understand first what the sacrifice means.  Does Miss Westerfield make any conditions?”

“She has positively forbidden me to make conditions.”

“And goes out into the world, helpless and friendless?”

“Yes .”

Even under the terrible trial that wrung her, the nobility of the woman’s nature spoke in her next words.

“Give me time to think of what you have said,” she pleaded.  “I have led a happy life; I am not used to suffer as I am suffering now.”

They were both silent.  Kitty’s voice was audible on the stairs that led to the picture-gallery, disputing with the maid.  Neither her father nor her mother heard her.

“Miss Westerfield is innocent of having wronged me, except in thought,” Mrs. Linley resumed.  “Do you tell me that on your word of honor?”

“On my word of honor.”

So far his wife was satisfied.  “My governess,” she said, “might have deceived me—­she has not deceived me.  I owe it to her to remember that.  She shall go, but not helpless and not friendless.”

Her husband forgot the restraints he had imposed on himself.

“Is there another woman in the world like you!” he exclaimed.

“Many other women,” she answered, firmly.  “A vulgar termagant, feeling a sense of injury, finds relief in an outburst of jealousy and a furious quarrel.  You have always lived among ladies.  Surely you ought to know that a wife in my position, who respects herself, restrains herself.  I try to remember what I owe to others as well as what they owe to me.”

She approached the writing table, and took up a pen.

Feeling his position acutely, Linley refrained from openly admiring her generosity.  Until he had deserved to be forgiven, he had forfeited the right to express an opinion on her conduct.  She misinterpreted his silence.  As she understood it, he appreciated an act of self-sacrifice on Miss Westerfield’s side—­but he had no word of encouragement for an act of self-sacrifice on his wife’s side.  She threw down the pen, with the first outbreak of anger that had escaped her yet.

“You have spoken for the governess,” she said to him.  “I haven’t heard yet, sir, what you have to say for yourself.  Is it you who tempted her?  You know how gratefully she feels toward you—­have you perverted her gratitude, and led her blindfold to love?  Cruel, cruel, cruel!  Defend yourself if you can.”