“The period, dear lady?” said Millefleurs—“I am not up to the last novelties of classification, nor scientific, don’t you know; but I should say Georgian, late Georgian, or verging upon the times of the Royal William”—he gave a slight shiver as he spoke, perhaps from cold, for the windows were all open, and there was a draught. “But perfect of its kind,” he added with a little bow, and a seriousness which was more disparaging than abuse. Even Lady Carry smiled constrainedly, and Torrance, with a start, awoke to his sense of wrong, and felt that he could bear no more.
“George or Jack,” he cried, “I don’t know anything about periods; this I do know, that it ran away with a great deal of money—money none of us would mind having in our pockets now.” He stared at Rintoul as he spoke, but even Rintoul looked as if he were indifferent, which galled the rich man more and more. “My Lady Countess and my Lord Marquis,” he said, with an elaborate mocking bow, “I’ll have to ask you to excuse me. I’ve got—something to do that I thought I could get off—but I can’t, don’t you know;” and here he laughed again, imitating as well as he was able the seraphic appeal to the candour of his hearers, which Millefleurs was so fond of making. The tone, the words, the aspect of the man, taught Millefleurs sufficiently (who was the only stranger) that he had given offence; and the others drew closer, eager to make peace for Carry’s sake, who was smiling with the ordinary effort of an unhappy wife to make the best of it and represent to the others that it was only her husband’s “way.”
But Torrance’s ill-humour was not as usual directed towards his wife. When he looked at her, his face, to her great astonishment, softened. It was a small matter that did it; the chief reason was that he saw a look of displeasure—of almost offence—upon his wife’s countenance too. She was annoyed with the contemptible little English lord as much as he was. This did not take away his rage, but it immediately gave him that sense that his wife was on his side, for which the rough fellow had always longed—and altered his aspect at once. As he stood looking at them, with his large light eyes projecting from their sockets, a flush of offence on his cheeks, a forced laugh on his mouth, his face softened all in a moment. This time she was no longer the chief antagonist to be subdued, but his natural supporter and champion. He laid his heavy hand upon her shoulder, with a pride of proprietorship which for once she did not seem to contest. “Lady Car,” he said, “she’s my deputy: she’ll take care of you better than I.”
Lady Caroline, with an involuntary, almost affectionate response, put her hand on his arm. “Don’t go,” she said, lifting her face to him with an eloquence of suppressed and tremulous emotion all about her, which indeed had little reference to this ill-humour of his, but helped to dignify it, and take away the air of trivial rage and mortification which had been too evident at first. Lady Lindores, too, made a step forward with the same intention. He stood and looked at them with a curious medley of feeling, touched at once by the pleasure of a closer approach to his wife, and by a momentary tragic sense of being entirely outside of this group of people to whom he was so closely related. They were his nearest connections, and yet he did not belong to them, never could belong to them! They were of a different species—another world altogether. Lady Car could take care of them. She could understand them, and know their ways; but not he. They were all too fine for him, out of his range, thinking different thoughts, pretending even (for it must surely have been mere pretence) to despise his house, which everybody knew was the great house of the district, infinitely grander than the castle or any other place in the county. He was deeply wounded by this unlooked-for cutting away of the ground from under his feet: but Lady Car was on his side. She could
