“And my husband is so entertaining! Sure any woman might be content with such gay company—such flashes of wit—such light raillery!” cried Hyacinth, scornfully, walking up and down the room, plucking at the lace upon her sleeves with restless hands, her bosom heaving, her eyes steel-bright with anger. “Since his sickness last year, he has been the image of melancholy; he has held himself aloof from me as if _I_ had had the pestilence. I was content that it should be so. I had my children and you, and one who loved me better, in his light way, than any of you—and I could do without Lord Fareham. But now he forbids me to see an old friend that is dangerously ill, and every drop of blood in my veins boils in rebellion against his tyranny!” It was in the early dusk, an hour or so after dinner. Angela sat silent in the shadow of a bay window, quite as heavy-hearted as her sister—sorry for Hyacinth, but still sorrier for Hyacinth’s husband, yet feeling that there was treachery and unkindness in making him first in her thoughts. But surely, surely he deserved a better wife than this! Surely he deserved a wife’s love—this man who stood alone among the men she knew, hating all evil things, honouring all things good and noble! He had been unkind to her—cold and cruel—since that fatal night. He had let her understand that all friendship between them was at an end for ever, and that she had become despicable in his sight; and she had submitted to be scorned by him, since it was impossible that she should clear herself. She had made her sisterly sacrifice for a sister who regarded it very lightly; to whose light fancy that night and all it involved counted but as a scene in a comedy; and she could not unmake it. But having so sacrificed his good opinion whose esteem she valued, she wanted to see some happy result, and to save this splendid home from shipwreck. Suddenly, with a passionate impulse, she went to her sister, and put her arms round her and kissed her. “Hyacinth, you shall not continue in this folly,” she cried, “to fret for that shallow idler, whose love is lighter than thistledown, whose element is the ruelle of one of those libertine French duchesses he is ever talking about. To rebel against the noblest gentleman in England! Oh, sister, you must know him better than I do; and yet I, who am nothing to him, am wretched when I see him ill-used. Indeed, Hyacinth, you are acting like a wicked wife. You should never have wished to see De Malfort again, after the peril of that night. You should have known that he had no esteem for you, that he was a traitor—that his design was the wickedest, cruellest——”