And so gradually this desultory musical and religious education dwindled down to visits to Westminster Abbey and the opera; nor could George succeed satisfactorily in establishing in her mind a proper sense of the difference there is between these two kinds of entertainment. CHAPTER XVI. The honeymoon was over, and the London season drawing to a close before the Colonel, who, to Lauriston’s great regret, seemed, since that inauspicious introduction to Nouna, to have withdrawn into a permanent coldness towards him, made an attempt to bridge over the restraint which had grown up between them. It was one evening when George, to do honour to a visitor who was a friend of his, had dined at mess, that the Colonel broke silence towards his old favourite, and inviting him, at dessert, to a chair just left vacant by his side, asked if he was still as anxious as ever to get leave for September. George was rather surprised. “I am more anxious than ever for it now, sir,” he said. Then, seeing that Lord Florencecourt’s brows contracted slightly with a displeased air, he added apologetically, “You know, sir, I should not have ventured to ask for more leave this year if you yourself had not been kind enough to propose it. And now my wife is longing for the promised change.” The Colonel instinctively frowned still more at the mention of the obnoxious wife, and after balancing a fruit-knife on his fingers for a few seconds, with his eyes fixed as intently upon it as if the feat were a deeply interesting one, he said very shortly: “You still intend to go to Norfolk? It’s a damp climate, an unhealthy climate--not one suitable to a lady born in India, I should think. Beastly dull, foggy place at all times. Why don’t you go to Scarborough?” George could not remind him that it was he himself who had probably suggested the Millards’ invitation, and certainly done his utmost to persuade him to accept it. The knowledge that it was disapproval of his wife which had caused this sudden change in the Colonel’s views, made him suddenly stiff, constrained, and cold. “I have promised my wife, Colonel; it is too late to change my plans and disappoint her.” The Colonel glanced searchingly up at him from the corners of his eyes, and said almost deprecatingly: “I see--of course not. I only meant to suggest that the quiet country life the Millards lead might bore her, and, the fact is, our place will not be as lively as usual this year. I shall have some unexpected expenses to meet. I’ve been warned of them, and they will not be long in coming.” Here he paused, gazing still on the table, and seeming not so much to watch as to listen for some sign of comprehension on George’s part. “And so,” he continued, at last raising his eyes, and speaking in his shortest, bitterest tone, “I shall have to retrench, and there will be no merrymaking at Willingham this year.”