It was clear to Lilia at last that Gino had married her for money.  But he had frightened her too much to leave any place for contempt.  His return was terrifying, for he was frightened too, imploring her pardon, lying at her feet, embracing her, murmuring “It was not I,” striving to define things which he did not understand.  He stopped in the house for three days, positively ill with physical collapse.  But for all his suffering he had tamed her, and she never threatened to cut off supplies again.

Perhaps he kept her even closer than convention demanded.  But he was very young, and he could not bear it to be said of him that he did not know how to treat a lady—­or to manage a wife.  And his own social position was uncertain.  Even in England a dentist is a troublesome creature, whom careful people find difficult to class.  He hovers between the professions and the trades; he may be only a little lower than the doctors, or he may be down among the chemists, or even beneath them.  The son of the Italian dentist felt this too.  For himself nothing mattered; he made friends with the people he liked, for he was that glorious invariable creature, a man.  But his wife should visit nowhere rather than visit wrongly:  seclusion was both decent and safe.  The social ideals of North and South had had their brief contention, and this time the South had won.

It would have been well if he had been as strict over his own behaviour as he was over hers.  But the incongruity never occurred to him for a moment.  His morality was that of the average Latin, and as he was suddenly placed in the position of a gentleman, he did not see why he should not behave as such.  Of course, had Lilia been different—­had she asserted herself and got a grip on his character—­he might possibly—­though not probably—­have been made a better husband as well as a better man, and at all events he could have adopted the attitude of the Englishman, whose standard is higher even when his practice is the same.  But had Lilia been different she might not have married him.

The discovery of his infidelity—­which she made by accident—­destroyed such remnants of self-satisfaction as her life might yet possess.  She broke down utterly and sobbed and cried in Perfetta’s arms.  Perfetta was kind and even sympathetic, but cautioned her on no account to speak to Gino, who would be furious if he was suspected.  And Lilia agreed, partly because she was afraid of him, partly because it was, after all, the best and most dignified thing to do.  She had given up everything for him—­her daughter, her relatives, her friends, all the little comforts and luxuries of a civilized life—­and even if she had the courage to break away, there was no one who would receive her now.  The Herritons had been almost malignant in their efforts against her, and all her friends had one by one fallen off.  So it was better to live on humbly, trying not to feel, endeavouring by a cheerful demeanour to put things right.  “Perhaps,” she thought, “if I have a child he will be different.  I know he wants a son.”