At first Isabel took these homilies pretty meekly. She believed she had to “respect” her husband, and she was still a little intimidated by George Augustus’s superior Bulwer Lytton airs. But one day she lost her not very well-controlled temper and let the Winterbournes have it. George Augustus was a sneak and a cad and a liar! He wasn’t “rich”! He was “pore as a church mouse”! Him and his airs, pretending to her father he was a rich gentleman with a Profession, when he didn’t earn a penny and got married on the £200 his father gave him! She wouldn’t have married him, she wouldn’t, if he hadn’t come smarming round with his presents and his drives and pretending she would be a lady! And she wished she was dead, she did! And she wished she’d never set eyes on them! Then the fat was in the fire! Dear Mamma then took up the tale. Reserving _in petto_ a denunciation of the guilt-stricken and consternated father and son in the matter of their deception over the £200, she directed a skilful enfilade fire on the disarmed Isabel. Isabel was vulgar and irreligious, she was ill-bred and uneducated, she was mercenary on her own showing, and had ruined the hopeful life of George Augustus by seducing him into a disastrous marriage.... At that moment Isabel fainted, and most unfortunately for our George, the threatened miscarriage was averted—thanks more to Isabel’s health and vitality than to the ministrations of her inept husband and in-laws. Only dear Papa was genuinely distressed, and used what shred of influence he had to protect Isabel. As for George Augustus he simply collapsed, and did nothing but ejaculate: “Dear Mamma! Isabel! Let us be loving and united. Let us bear one another’s burdens!” But he was swept away in the torrent of genuine hatred revealed by this instructive scene. Even dear Mamma dropped her Non-Conformist tract hypocrisy, and only picked it up again when Isabel fainted. On dear Papa’s suggestion George Augustus took Isabel away to the sea-side on what was left of the £200; and thus it happened that George was born in a sea-side hotel. It was a difficult birth, clumsily doctored. Isabel suffered tortures for nearly forty hours. If she had not been as strong as a young mare, she would inevitably have died. During this agonizing labour, George Augustus prayed freely, took short walks, read “Lorna Doone,” had a half bottle of claret with his lunch and dinner, and slept tranquilly o’ nights. When, finally, he was admitted on tip-toe to a glance at the half-dead woman with the horrid little packet of red infant by her side he raised his hand and gave them his blessing. He then tip-toed down to dinner, and ordered a whole bottle of claret in honour of the event. [ III ]