" She came to him as he lay back in his chair and put her hand
on his brow. He was tired, not only looking tired; his head did ache, she
had no doubt; to turn these afflictions to account had always been his
way; so long ago as the Imperial League banquet she remembered it. "Go to
bed," she said. "I'll write a few letters first."
"I want you to understand me," he said. He loved her and she had made him
uneasy; her good opinion was very necessary to his happiness.
"I do understand you," she said, and persuaded him to go upstairs, while
she sat down by the fire, forgetful apparently of the excuse that she had
made for lingering.
Did she repent? That question came often into her mind. She well might,
for one of the great hopes with which she had married was quite gone by
now. There was no longer any possibility of maintaining that the faults
were of manner only, no longer any reasonable expectation that she would
be able to banish or materially to diminish them. It was for better for
worse with a vengeance then. But did she repent? There were times when
she wept, times when she shuddered, times when she scorned, even times
when she hated.
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