He came up and took her hand, but she snatched it away from him.  “Laura,” he said, “do not let us quarrel.”

“I certainly shall quarrel if such insinuations are repeated.”

“I made no insinuation.”

“Do not repeat them.  That is all.”

He was cowed and left her, having first attempted to get out of the difficulty of his position by making much of her alleged illness, and by offering to send for Dr. Macnuthrie.  She positively refused to see Dr. Macnuthrie, and at last succeeded in inducing him to quit the room.

This had occurred about the end of November, and on the 20th of December Violet Effingham reached Loughlinter.  Life in Mr. Kennedy’s house had gone quietly during the intervening three weeks, but not very pleasantly.  The name of Phineas Finn had not been mentioned.  Lady Laura had triumphed; but she had no desire to acerbate her husband by any unpalatable allusion to her victory.  And he was quite willing to let the subject die away, if only it would die.  On some other matters he continued to assert himself, taking his wife to church twice every Sunday, using longer family prayers than she approved, reading an additional sermon himself every Sunday evening, calling upon her for weekly attention to elaborate household accounts, asking for her personal assistance in much local visiting, initiating her into his favourite methods of family life in the country, till sometimes she almost longed to talk again about Phineas Finn, so that there might be a rupture, and she might escape.  But her husband asserted himself within bounds, and she submitted, longing for the coming of Violet Effingham.  She could not write to her father and beg to be taken away, because her husband would read a sermon to her on Sunday evening.

To Violet, very shortly after her arrival, she told her whole story.  “This is terrible,” said Violet.  “This makes me feel that I never will be married.”

“And yet what can a woman become if she remain single?  The curse is to be a woman at all.”

“I have always felt so proud of the privileges of my sex,” said Violet.

“I never have found them,” said the other; “never.  I have tried to make the best of its weaknesses, and this is what I have come to!  I suppose I ought to have loved some man.”

“And did you never love any man?”

“No;—­I think I never did,—­not as people mean when they speak of love.  I have felt that I would consent to be cut in little pieces for my brother,—­because of my regard for him.”

“Ah, that is nothing.”

“And I have felt something of the same thing for another,—­a longing for his welfare, a delight to hear him praised, a charm in his presence,—­so strong a feeling for his interest, that were he to go to wrack and ruin, I too, should, after a fashion, be wracked and ruined.  But it has not been love either.”

“Do I know whom you mean?  May I name him?  It is Phineas Finn.”