“Oh, you delightful person!” said his wife.

So they went to the jeweller’s, and Lady Honoria bought ornaments to the value of L150, and carried them home and hung over them, as another class of woman might hang over her first-born child, admiring them with a tender ecstasy.  Whenever he had a sum of money that he could afford to part with, Geoffrey would take her thus to a jeweller’s or a dressmaker’s, and stand by coldly while she bought things to its value.  Lady Honoria was delighted.  It never entered into her mind that in a sense he was taking a revenge upon her, and that every fresh exhibition of her rejoicings over the good things thus provided added to his contempt for her.

Those were happy days for Lady Honoria!  She rejoiced in this return of wealth like a school-boy at the coming of the holidays, or a half-frozen wanderer at the rising of the sun.  She had been miserable during all this night of poverty, as miserable as her nature admitted of, now she was happy again, as she understood happiness.  For bred, educated, civilized—­what you will—­out of the more human passions, Lady Honoria had replaced them by this idol-worship of wealth, or rather of what wealth brings.  It gave her a positive physical satisfaction; her beauty, which had begun to fade, came back to her; she looked five years younger.  And all the while Geoffrey watched her with an ever-growing scorn.

Once it broke out.  The Bolton Street house had been furnished; he gave her fifteen hundred pounds to do it, and with what things they owned she managed very well on that.  They moved into it, and Honoria had set herself up with a sufficient supply of grand dresses and jewellery, suitable to her recovered position.  One day however, it occurred to her that Effie was a child of remarkable beauty, who, if properly dressed, would look very nice in the drawing-room at tea-time.  So she ordered a lovely costume for her—­this deponent is not able to describe it, but it consisted largely of velvet and lace.  Geoffrey heard nothing of this dress, but coming home rather early one afternoon—­it was on a Saturday, he found the child being shown off to a room full of visitors, and dressed in a strange and wonderful attire with which, not unnaturally, she was vastly pleased.  He said nothing at the time, but when at length the dropping fire of callers had ceased, he asked who put Effie into that dress.

“I did,” said Lady Honoria, “and a pretty penny it has cost, I can tell you.  But I can’t have the child come down so poorly clothed, it does not look well.”

“Then she can stay upstairs,” said Geoffrey frowning.

“What do you mean?” asked his wife.

“I mean that I will not have her decked out in those fine clothes.  They are quite unsuitable to her age.  There is plenty of time for her to take to vanity.”

“I really don’t understand you, Geoffrey.  Why should not the child be handsomely dressed?”