"I cannot say what with him is possible or impossible. He is bound by none of the ordinary rules of mankind."
That evening Lopez returned to his dinner in Manchester Square, which was still regularly served for him and his wife, though the servants who attended upon him did so under silent and oft-repeated protest. He said not a word more as to Arthur Fletcher, nor did he seek any ground of quarrel with his wife. But that her continued melancholy and dejection made anything like good-humour impossible, even on his part, he would have been good-humoured. When they were alone she asked him as to their future destiny. "Papa tells me you are not going," she began by saying.
"Did I not tell you so this morning?"
"Yes;—you said so. But I did not know you were earnest. Is it all over?"
"All over,—I suppose."
"I should have thought that you would have told me with more—more seriousness."
"I don't know what you would have. I was serious enough. The fact is, that your father has delayed so long the payment of the promised money that the thing has fallen through of necessity. I do not know that I can blame the Company."
Then there was a pause. "And now," she said, "what do you mean to do?"
"Upon my word I cannot say. I am quite as much in the dark as you can be."
"That is nonsense, Ferdinand."