‘In common sense, and knowledge of the world, and—everything that goes to make a man,’ said Otho, angrily. Eleanor hearkened, but made no reply to his words. She had not yet been with him twenty-four hours, but she already had an intuitive feeling as to what subjects would and would not be congenial to him. ‘I see you’ve been hearing that old tale, have you?’ Otho went on, glancing at her. ‘Magdalen has been improving the shining hour, I perceive. But she does not usually slang Gilbert.’ ‘She did not “slang” anybody, as you call it,’ said Eleanor, feeling ever a deeper repugnance as Otho more fully unfolded his views upon men and things, in language, too, of increasing nicety of expression. ‘There are always two sides to a question,’ he went on, ‘and some people seem to me to forget that, but for Gilbert, his father would have had no money to leave; so that he was entitled to a voice in the disposal of it, if ever man was. His brother treated him like a dog at that time. I’ve always hated him for it, and I like to flaunt Gilbert in his face when he comes to stay with me. And as for Magdalen jilting Michael Langstroth, as they call it—_jilting_ him!’ Otho sneered—‘I don’t see why a woman is to be called a jilt because, when she has given a man full three years’ trial, and at the end of the time finds that he is as far off as ever from being able to keep her, and has chucked up the one chance there was of being provided for, she writes and tells him she thinks there had better be an end to it. And that’s about what did happen between them.’