“Have you any headache this morning?” he asked.
“Oh, no,” she said. Then he took his tea and his toast, spoke some word to her about the fineness of the weather, told her some scraps of news, and soon returned to the absorbing interest of a speech made by the leader of the Opposition in the House of Lords. The speech was very interesting to Mr. Palliser, because in it the noble lord alluded to a breakup in the present Cabinet, as to which the rumours were, he said, so rife through the country as to have destroyed all that feeling of security in the existing Government which the country so much valued and desired. Mr. Palliser had as yet heard no official tidings of such a rupture; but if such rupture were to take place, it must be in his favour. He felt himself at this moment to be full of politics—to be near the object of his ambition, to have affairs upon his hands which required all his attention. Was it absolutely incumbent on him to refer again to the incidents of last night? The doing so would be odious to him. The remembrance of the task now immediately before him destroyed all his political satisfaction. He did not believe that his wife was in any serious danger. Might it not yet be possible for him to escape from the annoyance, and to wash his mind clean of all suspicion? He was not jealous; he was indeed incapable of jealousy. He knew what it would be to be dishonoured, and he knew that under certain circumstances the world would expect him to exert himself in a certain way. But the thing that he had now to do was a great trouble to him. He would rather have to address the House of Commons with ten columns of figures than utter a word of remonstrance to his wife. But she had defied him—defied him by saying that she would see his friends no more; and it was the remembrance of this, as he sat behind his newspaper, that made him ultimately feel that he could not pass in silence over what had been done.
Nevertheless, he went on reading, or pretending to read, as long as the continuance of the breakfast made it certain that his wife would remain with him. Every now and then he said some word to her of what he was reading, endeavouring to use the tone of voice that was customary to him in his domestic teachings of politics. But through it all there was a certain hesitation—there were the sure signs of an attempt being made, of which he was himself conscious, and which she understood with the most perfect accuracy. He was deferring the evil moment, and vainly endeavouring to make himself believe that he was comfortably employed the while. She had no newspaper, and made no endeavour to deceive herself. She, therefore, was the first to begin the conversation.
“Plantagenet,” she said, “you told me last night, as I was going to bed, that you had something to say about Lady Monk’s party.”
He put down the newspaper slowly, and turned towards her. “Yes, my dear. After what happened, I believe that I must say something.”
“If you think anything, pray say it,” said Glencora.
“It is not always easy for a man to show what he thinks by what he says,” he replied. “My fear is that you should suppose me to think more than I do. And it was for that reason that I determined to sleep on it before I spoke to you.”
“If anybody is angry with me I’d much rather they should have it out with me while their anger is hot. I hate cold anger.”
“But I am not angry.”
“That’s what husbands always say when they’re going to scold.”
“But I am not going to scold. I am only going to advise you.”
“I’d sooner be scolded. Advice is to anger just what cold anger is to hot.”
“But, my dear Glencora, surely if I find it necessary to speak—”
“I don’t want to stop you, Plantagenet. Pray, go on. Only it will be so nice to have it over.”
He was now more than ever averse to the task before him. Husbands, when they give their wives a talking, should do it out of hand, uttering their words hard, sharp, and quick—and should then go. There are some works that won’t bear a preface, and this work of marital faultfinding is one of them. Mr. Palliser was already beginning to find out the truth of this. “Glencora,” he said, “I wish you to be serious with me.”
“I am very serious,” she replied, as she settled herself in her chair with an air of mockery, while her eyes and mouth were bright and eloquent with a spirit which her husband did not love to see. Poor girl! There was seriousness enough in store for her before she would be able to leave the room.
“You ought to be serious. Do you know why Mrs. Marsham came here from Lady Monk’s last night?”
“Of course I do. She came to tell you that I was waltzing with Burgo Fitzgerald. You might as well ask me whether I knew why Mr. Bott was standing at all the doors, glaring at me.”
“I don’t know anything about Mr. Bott.”
“I know something about him though,” she said, again moving herself in her chair.
“I am speaking now of Mrs. Marsham.”
“You should speak of them both together as they hunt in couples.”
“Glencora, will you listen to me, or will you not? If you say that you will not, I shall know what to do.”
“I don’t think you would, Plantagenet.” And she nodded her little head at him, as she spoke. “I’m sure I don’t know what you would do. But I will listen
