“The best mistresses are supposed to look to the ways of their household,” he said maliciously, “and to have some regard for their husbands’ comfort. D------ you, say no more. I tell you the man shall go, and if he chooses to bring an action against me for giving him a worse character than he brought with him, I’ll show up his whole past life.” With that he sauntered out of the room and Ralph, with some presence of mind, picked up the Kodak and began to talk to Charlie about the best position for taking a photograph of the Scott memorial just opposite. In a few minutes Christine slowly crossed the room and sat down in a low chair beside Charlie’s couch. Her white taper fingers played with the child’s light hair, but she was quite silent, sitting there listlessly, with the exhausted look which people wear when they have been battling with a strong wind. “And she might have been Macneillie’s wife!” thought Ralph. “How can she endure this wretched existence!” He was made so miserable by the sight of that worst tragedy of life--a mistaken marriage--and by the thought of the grievous pain and sorrow it had entailed, that he was quite unable to perceive how immensely both Christine and Macneillie had been developed by the consequences of that very mistake. The woman who at seven-and-twenty had sacrificed the entire happiness of another to her own ambition and the worldly arguments of her parents, who had allowed the love in her heart to grow weak for lack of nourishment, who had been capable of utterly deceiving herself and stifling her conscience, had at four-and-thirty grown clear-eyed and humble through much sorrow. And as for Macneillie, his years had been spent to such good purpose that no one with deep insight could have wished that he had married Christine Greville as she had been seven years ago. There had, perhaps, been truth in her assertion in St. James’s Park--she might have dragged him down to a lower level. Undoubtedly, apart, they had each of them climbed a step higher, and she was more worthy of him now than in the old days. “Auntie,” said the child, breaking the silence at last, “you won’t really let Dugald go, will you?” She sighed. “Not if I can help it, dear, but of course he is Sir Roderick’s servant. Say no more about it, though. I know you are fond of him and would be sorry to lose him, but we can’t always have what we like.” “I should have thought you might,” said the child. “You who earn such lots of money. _Can’t_ you have all you like?” She laughed, but there were tears in her eyes. “I can have you, dear, and you are my chief pleasure now,” she said caressingly. Then, shaking off her cares for awhile, she began to talk to Ralph, who at the end of the call felt more ready than ever to be her devoted servant for the rest of his life. “How Evereld will like to hear all about her,” he reflected as he went down the stairs, “there will be no end to tell her next time we meet.”