The Prime Minister

passed on. She had put herself out of the way to be civil to Mr. and Mrs. Lopez, feeling that she had in some degree injured him in reference to the election, and had therefore invited both him and his wife on more than one occasion. Arthur Fletcher was there as a young man well known in the world, and as a supporter of the Duke’s Government. The Duchess had taken up Arthur Fletcher⁠—as she was wont to take up new men, and had personally become tired of Lopez. Of course she had heard of the election, and had been told that Lopez had behaved badly. Of Mr. Lopez she did not know enough to care anything, one way or the other;⁠—but she still encouraged him because she had caused him disappointment. She had now detained them a minute on the terrace before the windows while she said a word, and Arthur Fletcher became one of the little party before he knew whom he was meeting. “I am delighted,” she said, “that you two Silverbridge heroes should meet together here as friends.” It was almost incumbent on her to say something, though it would have been better for her not to have alluded to their heroism. Mrs. Lopez put out her hand, and Arthur Fletcher of course took it. Then the two men bowed slightly to each other, raising their hats. Arthur paused a moment with them, as they passed on from the Duchess, thinking that he would say something in a friendly tone. But he was silenced by the frown on the husband’s face, and was almost constrained to go away without a word. It was very difficult for him even to be silent, as her greeting had been kind. But yet it was impossible for him to ignore the displeasure displayed in the man’s countenance. So he touched his hat, and asking her to remember him affectionately to her father, turned off the path and went away.

“Why did you shake hands with that man?” said Lopez. It was the first time since their marriage that his voice had been that of an angry man and an offended husband.

“Why not, Ferdinand? He and I are very old friends, and we have not quarrelled.”

“You must take up your husband’s friendships and your husband’s quarrels. Did I not tell you that he had insulted you?”

“He never insulted me.”

“Emily, you must allow me to be the judge of that. He insulted you, and then he behaved like a poltroon down at Silverbridge, and I will not have you know him any more. When I say so I suppose that will be enough.” He waited for a reply, but she said nothing. “I ask you to tell me that you will obey me in this.”

“Of course he will not come to my house, nor should I think of going to his, if you disapproved.”

“Going to his house! He is unmarried.”

“Supposing he had a wife! Ferdinand, perhaps it will be better that you and I should not talk about him.”

“By G⁠⸺,” said Lopez, “there shall be no subject on which I will be afraid to talk to my own wife. I insist on your assuring me that you will never speak to him again.”

He had taken her along one of the upper walks because it was desolate, and he could there speak to her, as he thought, without being heard. She had, almost unconsciously, made a faint attempt to lead him down upon the lawn, no doubt feeling averse to private conversation at the moment; but he had persevered, and had resented the little effort. The idea in his mind that she was unwilling to hear him abuse Arthur Fletcher, unwilling to renounce the man, anxious to escape his order for such renunciation, added fuel to his jealousy. It was not enough for him that she had rejected this man and had accepted him. The man had been her lover, and she should be made to denounce the man. It might be necessary for him to control his feelings before old Wharton;⁠—but he knew enough of his wife to be sure that she would not speak evil of him or betray him to her father. Her loyalty to him, which he could understand though not appreciate, enabled him to be a tyrant to her. So now he repeated his order to her, pausing in the path, with a voice unintentionally loud, and frowning down upon her as he spoke. “You must tell me, Emily, that you will never speak to him again.”

She was silent, looking up into his face, not with tremulous eyes, but with infinite woe written in them, had he been able to read the writing. She knew that he was disgracing himself, and yet he was the man whom she loved! “If you bid me not to speak to him, I will not;⁠—but he must know the reason why.”

“He shall know nothing from you. You do not mean to say that you would write to him?”

“Papa must tell him.”

“I will not have it so. In this matter, Emily, I will be master⁠—as it is fit that I should be. I will not have you talk to your father about Mr. Fletcher.”

“Why not, Ferdinand?”

“Because I have so decided. He is an old family friend. I can understand that, and do not therefore wish to interfere between him and your father. But he has taken upon himself to write an insolent letter to you as my wife, and to interfere in my affairs. As to what should be done between you and him I must be the judge, and not your father.”

“And must I not speak to papa about it?”

“No!”

“Ferdinand, you make too little, I think, of the associations and affections of a whole life.”

“I will hear nothing about affection,” he said angrily.

“You cannot mean that⁠—that⁠—you doubt me?”

“Certainly not. I think too much of myself and too little of him.” It did not occur to him to tell her that he thought too