“Devil take the horse!” cried the gentleman. “Well, tell him I’ll think about it,” he added, after a moment’s reflection. He cast a searching glance at me, as the servant withdrew, expecting to see some token of deep astonishment and alarm; but, being previously prepared, I preserved an aspect of stoical indifference. His countenance fell as he met my steady gaze, and he turned away in very obvious disappointment, and walked up to the fire-place, where he stood in an attitude of undisguised dejection, leaning against the chimney-piece with his forehead sunk upon his arm.
“Where do you want to go, Arthur?” said I.
“To London,” replied he, gravely.
“What for?” I asked.
“Because I cannot be happy here.”
“Why not?”
“Because my wife doesn’t love me.”
“She would love you with all her heart, if you deserved it.”
“What must I do to deserve it?”
This seemed humble and earnest enough; and I was so much affected, between sorrow and joy, that I was obliged to pause a few seconds before I could steady my voice to reply.