"But it is not so."
"Take the advantage, nevertheless, of my toughness. Send him the £500 without a word,—or make Warburton do so, or Mr. Moreton. Make no secret of it. Then if the papers talk about it—"
"A question might be asked about it in the House."
"Or if questioned in any way,—say that I did it. Tell the exact truth. You are always saying that nothing but truth ever serves. Let the truth serve now. I shall not blench. Your saying it all in the House of Lords won't wound me half so much as your looking at me as you did just now."
"Did I wound you? God knows I would not hurt you willingly."
"Never mind. Go on. I know you think that I have brought it all on myself by my own wickedness. Pay this man the money, and then if anything be said about it, explain that it was my fault, and say that you paid the money because I had done wrong."
When he came in she had been seated on a sofa, which she constantly used herself, and he had stood over her, masterful, imperious, and almost tyrannical. She had felt his tyranny, but had resented it less than usual,—or rather had been less determined in holding her own against him and asserting herself as his equal,—because she confessed to herself that she had injured him. She had, she thought, done but little, but that which she had done had produced this injury. So she had sat and endured the oppression of his standing posture. But now he sat down by her, very close to her, and put his hand upon her shoulder,—almost round her waist.
"Cora," he said, "you do not quite understand it."
"I never understand anything, I think," she answered.
"Not in this case,—perhaps never,—what it is that a husband feels about his wife. Do you think that I could say a word against you, even to a friend?"