“Yes, my mother,” he said, “why should not I speak of my mother? I never think it strange, Nancy, that you should think of yours.” “Mine!” she cried, turning back upon him with flashing eyes, “her thoughts have been as much for you as for me. She has been as kind to you as to me,” (this set Arthur thinking; but what could he answer to it?) “but there is not a word of me in all that letter, not a word, though they knew I should be your wife when you got it.” “What could they say? They did not know you, darling, and I had been silly, I had not written to conciliate as I ought to have done; but to defy them. What could they say?” “Say! it is just as good as if they had said, ‘She is no more to us than the dirt under our feet.’ They could not do anything against me or say anything against me, so they treat me as if I was not worthy to be noticed; oh, that is what they mean! they think if they keep that up they will bring you back to them again, and persuade you that I am not worth thinking of. Oh, I know women’s ways!” “You are mistaken, Nancy, I am sure you are entirely mistaken.” “A great deal you can tell! they will not show you what they are after. They will smooth you down and keep you not suspicious. Oh! I tell you I know women’s ways.” “You don’t know my mother and Lucy,” he said, making an effort to stand against her, “they are not like the women you--” “Not like the women I know? I knew you would come to that,” she said violently. “Oh, I knew it the very moment I set eyes upon her; but not yet, not so soon as this.” And Nancy, really wounded in her blaze of unnecessary wrath, burst into fiery tears. They were tears that might have been red hot, and scalded as they poured down in a very thunder shower. He had never seen such a torrent, and he stood thunderstruck; not melted as he had been before, when Nancy was moved in this way. Here too was a change. He stood still, he did not rush to her, and use all the blandishments he could think of to put a stop to the intolerable spectacle of her distress. He let her cry. He was confounded by the sudden outburst; and a sharp twinge of shame for her mingled with the pain she gave him. He was ashamed that _his wife_ should be so unjust, so hasty in her judgment, so violent in her mistaken ideas. When he did go to her it was slowly, with a hesitation very different from the lover’s rush. That she should be so foolish _now_, was not that something derogatory to him? “Nancy,” he said, “I cannot think how you can be so--unkind. Do you think I mean any offence to you, or that _they_ mean any offence? Of course you know they wanted me to marry some one--better off; some one they knew.” “Oh, let me go,” she cried, choking with pain and rage together, “I will go back to my mother; and you can go to yours, of whom you think so much. What does it matter about a common girl like me!”