“He has taken great care to conceal his powers in that way,” said the old woman, with a sneer. “And if he has, whose fault is it?” the girl said, warmly. “Who has kept him in idleness but yourself? And now you blame him for it. I wish he had never had any of your money--I wish he were never to have any more of it.” And then Sheila stopped, with a terrible dread falling over her. What had she not said? The pride of her race had carried her so far, and she had given expression to all the tumult of her heart; but had she not betrayed her duty as a wife, and grievously compromised the interests of her husband? And yet the indignation in her bosom was too strong to admit of her retracting those fatal phrases and begging forgiveness. She stood for a moment irresolute, and she knew that the invalid was regarding her curiously, as though she were some wild animal, and not an ordinary resident in Bayswater. “You are a little mad, but you are a good girl, and I want to be friends with you. You have in you the spirit of a dozen Frank Lavenders.” “You will never make friends with me by speaking ill of my husband,” said Sheila, with the same proud and indignant look. “Not when he ill-uses you?” “He does not ill-use me. What has Mr. Ingram been saying to you?” The sudden question would certainly have brought about a disclosure if any were to have been made; but Mrs. Lavender assured Sheila that Mr. Ingram had told her nothing, that she had been forming her own conclusions, and that she still doubted that they were right. “Now sit down and read to me. You will find Marcus Antoninus on the top of those books.” “Frank is in the drawing-room,” observed Sheila, mildly. “He can wait,” said the old woman, sharply. “Yes, but you cannot expect me to keep him waiting,” with a smile which did not conceal her very definite purpose. “Then ring, and bid him come up. You will soon get rid of those absurd sentiments.” Sheila rang the bell, and sent Mrs. Paterson down for Lavender, but she did not betake herself to Marcus Antoninus. She waited a few minutes, and then her husband made his appearance, whereupon she sat down and left to him the agreeable duty of talking with this toothless old heathen about funerals and lingering death. “Well, Aunt Lavender, I am sorry to hear you have been ill, but I suppose you are getting all right again, to judge by your looks.” “I am not nearly as ill as you expected.” “I wonder you did not say ‘hoped,’” remarked Lavender, carelessly. “You are always attributing the most charitable feelings to your fellow-creatures.” “Frank Lavender,” said the old lady, who was a little pleased by this bit of flattery, “if you come here to make yourself impertinent and disagreeable, you can go down-stairs again. Your wife and I get on very well without you.” “I am glad to hear it,” he said: “I suppose you have been telling her what is the matter with you.”