Next day was the day of sunlight Aminta loved.

It happens with the men who can strike, supposing them of the order of civilized creatures, that when they have struck heavily, however deserved the blow, a liking for the victim will assail them, if they discover no support in hatred; and no sooner is the spot of softness touched than they are invaded by hosts of the stricken person’s qualities, which plead to be taken as virtues, and are persuasive.  The executioner did rightly.  But it is the turn for the victim to declare the blow excessive.

Now, a just man, who has overdone the stroke, will indemnify and console in every way, short of humiliating himself.

He had an unusually clear vision of the scene at Steignton.  Surprise and wrath obscured it at the moment, for reflection to bring it out in sharp outline; and he was able now to read and translate into inoffensive English the inherited Spanish of it, which violated nothing of Aminta’s native ‘donayre,’ though it might look on English soil outlandish or stagey.

Aminta stood in sunlight on the greensward.  She stood hand on hip, gazing at the house she had so long desired to see, without a notion that she committed an offence.  Implicitly upon all occasions she took her husband’s word for anything he stated, and she did not consequently imagine him to be at Steignton.  So, then, she had no thought of running down from London to hunt and confound him, as at first it appeared.  The presence of that white-faced Morsfield vindicated her sufficiently so far.  And let that fellow hang till the time for cutting him down!  Not she, but Pagnell, seems to have been the responsible party.  And, by the way, one might prick the affair with Morsfield by telling him publicly that his visit to inspect Steignton was waste of pains, for he would not be accepted as a tenant in the kennels, et caetera.

Well, poor girl, she satisfied her curiosity, not aware that a few weeks farther on would have done it to the full.

As to Morsfield, never once, either in Vienna or in Paris, had she, warmly admired though she was, all eyes telescoping and sun-glassing on her, given her husband an hour or half an hour or two minutes of anxiety.  Letters came.  The place getting hot, she proposed to leave it.

She had been rather hardly tried.  There are flowers we cannot keep growing in pots.  Her fault was, that instead of flinging down her glove and fighting it out openly, she listened to Pagnell, and began the game of Pull.  If he had a zest for the game, it was to stump the woman Pagnell.  So the veteran fancied in his amended mind.

This intrusive sunlight chased him from the breakfast-table and out of the house.  She would be enjoying it somewhere; but the house empty of a person it was used to contain had an atmosphere of the vaults, and inside it the sunlight she loved had an effect of taunting him singularly.