“If he throws anything at me, George, I shall drop upon the spot.”

But the countess had a worse time with the earl than any of her children.  It was necessary that she should see him daily, and necessary also that she should say much that he did not like to hear, and make many petitions that caused him to gnash his teeth.  The earl was one of those men who could not endure to live otherwise than expensively, and yet was made miserable by every recurring expense.  He ought to have known by this time that butchers, and bakers, and corn-chandlers, and coal-merchants will not supply their goods for nothing; and yet it always seemed as though he had expected that at this special period they would do so.  He was an embarrassed man, no doubt, and had not been fortunate in his speculations at Newmarket or Homburg; but, nevertheless, he had still the means of living without daily torment; and it must be supposed that his self-imposed sufferings, with regard to money, rose rather from his disposition than his necessities.  His wife never knew whether he were really ruined, or simply pretending it.  She had now become so used to her position in this respect, that she did not allow fiscal considerations to mar her happiness.  Food and clothing had always come to her,—­including velvet gowns, new trinkets, and a man-cook,—­and she presumed that they would continue to come.  But that daily conference with her husband was almost too much for her.  She struggled to avoid it; and, as far as the ways and means were concerned, would have allowed them to arrange themselves, if he would only have permitted it.  But he insisted on seeing her daily in his own sitting-room; and she had acknowledged to her favourite daughter, Margaretta, that those half-hours would soon be the death of her.  “I sometimes feel,” she said, “that I am going mad before I can get out.”  And she reproached herself, probably without reason, in that she had brought much of this upon herself.  In former days the earl had been constantly away from home, and the countess had complained.  Like many other women, she had not known when she was well off.  She had complained, urging upon her lord that he should devote more of his time to his own hearth.  It is probable that her ladyship’s remonstrances had been less efficacious than the state of his own health in producing that domestic constancy which he now practised; but it is certain that she looked back with bitter regret to the happy days when she was deserted, jealous, and querulous.  “Don’t you wish we could get Sir Omicron to order him to the German Spas?” she had said to Margaretta.  Now Sir Omicron was the great London physician, and might, no doubt, do much in that way.