“He tells me so every time he writes.”
“Indeed! well, it is like him. But to me he always avowed it his intention to stay till the present month.”
It struck me like a blow, this proof of premeditated transgression and systematic disregard of truth.
“It is only of a piece with the rest of his conduct,” observed Mr. Hargrave, thoughtfully regarding me, and reading, I suppose, my feelings in my face.
“Then he is really coming next week?” said I, after a pause.
“You may rely upon it, if the assurance can give you any pleasure. And is it possible, Mrs. Huntingdon, that you can rejoice at his return?” he exclaimed, attentively perusing my features again.
“Of course, Mr. Hargrave; is he not my husband?”
“Oh, Huntingdon; you know not what you slight!” he passionately murmured.
I took up my baby, and, wishing him good-morning, departed, to indulge my thoughts unscrutinized, within the sanctum of my home.
And was I glad? Yes, delighted; though I was angered by Arthur’s conduct, and though I felt that he had wronged me, and was determined he should feel it too.