"I never did. I never could. If my anger were at the hottest I would not confess to a human being that you were not perfect,--except to yourself." "Oh, thank you! If you were to scold me vicariously I should feel it less." "Do not joke with me now, for I am so much in earnest! And if I could not consent that your conduct should be called in question even by a friend, do you suppose it possible that I could contrive an escape from public censure by laying the blame publicly on you?" "Stick to the truth;--that's what you always say." "I certainly shall stick to the truth. A man and his wife are one. For what she does he is responsible." "They couldn't hang you, you know, because I committed a murder." "I should be willing that they should do so. No;--if I pay this money I shall take the consequences. I shall not do it in any way under the rose. But I wish you would remember--" "Remember what? I know I shall never forget all this trouble about that dirty little town, which I never will enter again as long as I live." "I wish you would think that in all that you do you are dealing with my feelings, with my heartstrings, with my reputation. You cannot divide yourself from me; nor, for the value of it all, would I wish that such division were possible. You say that I am thin-skinned." "Certainly you are. What people call a delicate organisation,--whereas I am rough and thick and monstrously commonplace." "Then should you too be thin-skinned for my sake." "I wish I could make you thick-skinned for your own. It's the only way to be decently comfortable in such a coarse, rough-and-tumble world as this is." "Let us both do our best," he said, now putting his arm round her and kissing her. "I think I shall send the man his money at once. It is the least of two evils. And now let there never be a word more about it between us." Then he left her and went back,--not to the study in which he was wont, when at Matching, to work with his private Secretary,--but to a small inner closet of his own, in which many a bitter moment was spent while he thought over that abortive system of decimal coinage by which he had once hoped to make himself one of the great benefactors of his nation, revolving in his mind the troubles which his wife brought upon him, and regretting the golden inanity of the coronet which in the very prime of life had expelled him from the House of Commons. Here he seated himself, and for an hour neither stirred from his seat, nor touched a pen, nor opened a book. He was trying to calculate in his mind what might be the consequences of paying the money to Mr. Lopez. But when the calculation slipped from him,--as it did,--then he demanded of himself whether strict high-minded justice did not call upon him to pay the money let the consequences be what they might. And here his mind was truer to him, and he was able to fix himself to a purpose,--though the resolution to which he came was not, perhaps, wise.