"That does not matter. But the worst of it is, Puddleham won't come and be a lamb too. Here am I, who have suffered pretty nearly as much as St. Paul, have forgiven all my enemies all round, and shaken hands with the Marquis by proxy, while Puddleham has been man enough to maintain the dignity of his indignation. The truth is, that the possession of a grievance is the one state of human blessedness. As long as the chapel was there, malgré moi, I could revel in my wrong. It turns out now that I can send poor Puddleham adrift to-morrow, and he immediately becomes the hero of the hour. I wish your brother-in-law had not been so officious in finding it all out."
Mrs. Fenwick postponed her story till the evening.
"Where is Mary?" Fenwick asked, when dinner was announced.
"She is not quite well, and will not come down. Wait awhile, and you shall be told." He did wait; but the moment that they were alone again he asked his question. Then Mrs. Fenwick told the whole story, hardly expressing an opinion herself as she told it. "I don't think she is to be shaken," she said at last.
"She is behaving very badly,—very badly,—very badly."
"I am not quite sure, Frank, whether we have behaved wisely," said his wife.
"If it must be told him, it will drive him mad," said Fenwick.
"I think it must be told."
"And I am to tell it?"
"That is what she asks."