“Yes,” she went on rapidly and with gathering vehemence, “you speak about your heart”—­which he had not done—­“and yet you know as well as I do that if I had been a girl of no position you would never have offered me the organ on which you pretend to set so high a value.  Or did your heart run wildly away with you, and drag us into love and a cottage—­a flat, I mean?  If so, I should prefer a little less heart and a little more common sense.”

Geoffrey winced, twice indeed, feeling that her ladyship had hit him as it were with both barrels.  For, as a matter of fact, he had not begun with any passionate devotion, and again Lady Honoria and he were now just as poor as though they had really married for love.

“It is hardly fair to go back on bygones and talk like this,” he said, “even if your position had something to do with it; only at first of course, you must remember that when we married mine was not without attractions.  Two thousand a year to start on and a baronetcy and eight thousand a year in the near future were not—­but I hate talking about that kind of thing.  Why do you force me to it?  Nobody could know that my uncle, who was so anxious that I should marry you, would marry himself at his age, and have a son and heir.  It was not my fault, Honoria.  Perhaps you would not have married me if you could have foreseen it.”

“Very probably not,” she answered calmly, “and it is not my fault that I have not yet learned to live with peace of mind and comfort on seven hundred a year.  It was hard enough to exist on two thousand till your uncle died, and now——­”

“Well, and now, Honoria, if you will only have patience and put up with things for a while, you shall be rich enough; I will make money for you, as much money as you want.  I have many friends.  I have not done so badly at the Bar this year.”

“Two hundred pounds, nineteen shillings and sevenpence, minus ninety-seven pounds rent of chambers and clerk,” said Lady Honoria, with a disparaging accent on the sevenpence.

“I shall double it next year, and double that again the next, and so on.  I work from morning till night to get on, that you may have—­what you live for,” he said bitterly.

“Ah, I shall be sixty before that happy day comes, and want nothing but scandal and a bath chair.  I know the Bar and its moaning,” she added, with acid wit.  “You dream, you imagine what you would like to come true, but you are deceiving me and yourself.  It will be like the story of Sir Robert Bingham’s property once again.  We shall be beggars all our days.  I tell you, Geoffrey, that you had no right to marry me.”

Then at length he lost his temper.  This was not the first of these scenes—­they had grown frequent of late, and this bitter water was constantly dropping.