‘Well, it certainly was not in this case, now, was it, Gundred--honestly, now, was it? You asked me to throw this wretched young man over, to break my promise to him, to upset all his plans, to cast him adrift again after I had offered him our help. And why? All simply because you had been bored at the Hoope-Arkwrights’ tedious dinner, and eaten something which disagreed with you, and made you look on all the world with a bilious, peevish eye, and on your luckless dinner-neighbour in particular. For that is what it all comes to, you know; that is what your wonderful edifice of instincts and suspicions and righteous qualms is founded on.’ ‘Yes; you may sneer,’ answered Gundred coolly, regaining her supremacy with her self-control. ‘It is always very easy to sneer. Well, I see that you must have your way; you will not listen to me. Somehow, I feel that there is something in the boy that stands between us--something that has been between us, somehow, for a long time, though we did not know it, and has now come to life again, or wakened up and set to work moving us apart. That may be my fancy, perhaps. I know I am upset. I am surprised and shocked. I expected better, happier things of you, Kingston. But this I will say, that if you won’t listen to what you call my foolish instincts, you will be very sorry for it some day. God will certainly punish you for disregarding the clear message that He sent you through me. And this obstinacy of yours will bring its own penalty in time. I know it. I know what you are doing is altogether wrong. And, as your wife, I shall put up with it. But day and night I shall pray God to remove this dreadful thing from our home. I shall pray that something may open your eyes.’ Kingston smiled uneasily, to disguise the impression that her appeal was making on his mood. ‘My dear Gundred,’ he said. ‘Pray by all means. The prayers of a good woman can never bring harm or pain.’ ‘Not even if you love the harm? Not even if you are wedded to the harm?’ asked Gundred. ‘Perhaps they might divorce you from the harm, and then that separation might be painful.’ ‘Oh, don’t talk as if you meant to put poison in poor Ivor Restormel’s soup,’ cried Kingston, to relieve the tension of the situation. He did not, however, in his own conscience feel altogether easy. The more bent was he, therefore, on laughing down his wife’s denunciations.