Prestige: that was the thing you wanted to maintain. Discipline be jiggered--that might do mischief--if you drove it too hard. The fact was, he was a little too sharp with Lucy. She was a dear, gentle creature, and no doubt one fell into the habit of pushing a willing horse. He could see it all now perfectly. He had been put out when he arrived at the Marchants' too early--she was not there; and then that old fool Vane with his, "Saw your wife at the Chelsea thing, with Lingen. They looked very settled"; that had put the lid on. That was how it was; and he had been too sharp. Well, one must make mistakes-- He wondered what she had meant about the Opera. Why had she harped upon that string? "You were there before Francis Lingen," she had said--well, and then--she had been furious with him. He had said, "I know that I was," and she, "If that is all your memory brings you--" and off she went. He smoked hard--lifted his hand and dropped it smartly to his mantelpiece. No; that was a thing no man could fathom. A Lucyism--quite clear to herself, no doubt. Well, he'd leave that alone. The more one tried to bottom those waters, the less one fished up. But he would make peace with her after dinner. He heard, "Mrs. Macartney is not dining this evening; she has a bad headache, and doesn't wish to be disturbed," received it with a curt nod, and accepted it simply. Better to take women at their word. Her troubles would have simmered down by the morning, whereas if he were to go up now, one of two things: either she'd be angry enough to let him batter at the door to no purpose--and feel an ass for his pains; or she would let him in, and make a fuss--in which case he would feel still more of an ass. "Ask Mrs. Macartney if I can do anything," he had said to Smithers, and was answered, "I think Mrs. Macartney is asleep, sir." He hoped she was. That would do her a world of good.