“I should never mistrust my wife.”
“Not during the honeymoon, perhaps; but afterward, when you could reason coolly again, would you not remember the past, and be inclined to throw it in my teeth?”
“You do not give me credit for much generosity, Gwendolyn.”
“I think you are a man,” she said.
“And all men are scoundrels, I suppose?”
“No; but they are sensitive on certain points. You may not be a Cæsar, but I fancy you would not care to have your wife suspected, for all that?”
“I do not see why you should be suspected.”
“It is a cruel world, remember. When people saw me pass on your arm, the women would say: ‘Poor fellow! he married Lady Gwendolyn St. Maur out of pity, because nobody would have anything to say to her after that wretched affair at Turoy. I wonder if she really did poison Mr. Belmont? She looks like that sort of person, does she not?’ A few men would make excuses for me, perhaps—men do judge more mercifully than my sex; but their voices would soon be drowned by their wives’ shrill chorus of dispraise. You see, Colonel Dacre, it is better I should live and die alone.”
“On the contrary, it is better you should belong to me, as you need a defender.”
“Who excuses himself accuses himself,” she answered sadly.