“Dont what?” he said, taken aback. She drew her hand away and retreated a step, coloring at the wifely liberty she had permitted herself to take. “I beg your pardon. I thought—I thought you were going to take the cross away. No,” she added quickly, seeing him about to speak, and anticipating a burst of scepticism: “it is not that; but the servant is an Irish girl—a Roman Catholic. She put it there; and she meant well, and will be hurt if it is thrown aside.” “And you think it better that she should remain in ignorance of what educated people think about her superstition than that she should suffer the mortification of learning that her opinions are not those of all the world! However, I had no such intention. Eliza’s idol is a respectable one as idols go.” There was a pause. Then Marian said: “It must have been a great shock to you when you came and found what had happened. I am very sorry. But had we not better go downrs? It seems so unfeeling, somehow, to talk without minding her. I suppose you consider that foolish; but I think you are upset by it yourself.” “You see a change in me, then?” “You are not quite yourself, I think.” “I tell you again that I _am_ myself at last. You do not seem to like the real man any better than the unreal: I am afraid you will not have me on any terms. Well, let us go downstairs, since you prefer it.” “Oh, not unless you wish it too,” said Marian, a little bewildered. He took her candle and led the way out without another word or a look at the bed. Marian, as he stood aside to let her go downstairs before him, was suddenly seized with a fantastic fear that he was going to kill her. She did not condescend to hurry or look back; but she only felt safe when they were in her room, and he no longer behind her. “Sit down,” he said, placing the candle on the mantelpiece. She sat down at the table, and he stood on the hearthrug. “Now,” said he, “about the future. Are you coming back? Will you give the life at Holland Park another trial?” “I cannot,” she said, bending her head almost on her hands. “I should disgrace you. And there is another reason.” “It is not in your power, nor in that of all London, to disgrace me if I do not feel disgraced. It is useless to say that you cannot. If you say ‘I will not,’ then that will settle it. What is the other reason?” “It is not yet born. But it will be.” “That is no reason to me. Do you think I shall be a worse father to it than he would have been?” “No, indeed. But it would be unfair to you.” He made an impatient gesture. “I dont understand you, Ned. Would you not rather be free?”