“My opinion,” she replied, a little sharply, “is, that you did not act, in several instances, this evening, like a gentleman!”

“I did not!” I spoke with affected surprise only; for I thought I knew what it was she meant.

“No, I am sorry to say that you did not.  Nothing could have been more improper than the notice you took of what was passing.  A true gentlemanly spirit would have led you to look away from, rather than at the weakness of our hostess.”

“Look away from it, Mrs. Sunderland!  How could I do that, pray?  It was before my eyes all the time.”

“You ought to have shut your eyes, then.”

“Nonsense.”

“Very far from it, Mr. Sunderland!  You are ready enough to see the faults of other people!”—­(in this, I must confess, my wife did not err very much)—­“but quite willing to shut your eyes to your own.  Now, I think you acted just as bad as Mrs. Tudor; and, in fact, worse.”

“Worse!  You are complimentary, Mrs. Sunderland.”

“I can’t help it if I am.  Mrs. Tudor was led by her weakness to conduct herself in an unlady-like manner; but you, with her example before your eyes, and in a mood to reflect, permitted yourself to remark upon her conduct in a way calculated to give pain.”

“In the name of wonder, what are you driving at, Mrs. Sunderland?  No one but you heard any remark I made.”

“I wish I could think so.”

“Who, besides yourself, heard what I said?”

“Mr. Tudor.”

“Impossible!”

“He was sitting very near us when you so far forgot yourself as to notice, verbally, what was passing, and I am well satisfied, either heard distinctly what was said, or enough to enable him to understand the nature of all you said.”

“You are surely mistaken,” said I, feeling a good deal mortified, and perceiving much more clearly than I did before the nature of my offence against good manners and propriety of conduct.

“I wish I were.  But I fear I am not.  I know that Mr. Tudor looked around toward you suddenly, and I noticed that he was much more particular afterward in his attentions to the rest of the company.  At table, you may have yourself remarked this.”

“Yes, I noticed it.”

“And yet, even at the table, when he was doing his best, you again hurt his feelings.”

“Me!”

“Yes, you.  When Mrs. Tudor spoke harshly to Lucy, or did something or other that you thought out of the way, you must look your sarcasm at me, notwithstanding the eyes of her husband were upon you.”

“But he didn’t see me, then.”

“Yes, but he did.  I saw him looking directly at you.”

“Oh, no! it cannot be.”  I was unwilling to believe this.

“I wish it were not so for my husband’s sake,” returned Mrs. Sunderland.  “But the evidence of my senses I generally find it necessary to credit.”

I must own that I felt considerably cut up, or cut down, whichever is the most mortifying state to be in.  To look and whisper my censure in company, I had thought no great harm; but now that I had found I had been discovered in the act, I had a mortifying sense of its impropriety.