“It is true, Gwen!”
“Not quite,” she answered, with sudden candor. “I have never been jealous of any one but Mrs. O’Hara.”
“And why of her, Gwen? We were both free eight months back, and if we had cared for each other, what need have hindered our marriage?”
Lady Gwendolyn hung her head.
“I never thought about that.”
“No; my wife took a foolish fancy into her head, and, instead of doing her best to banish it, allowed it to take quiet possession of all her thoughts. The consequence was that I could not shake hands civilly with an old friend without being supposed to care more for her than the woman I had sworn to love and cherish before Heaven! Confess that you have been very absurd, Gwen.”
“I am afraid I have, Lawrence,” she answered penitently, as she nestled close to him and laid her head on his shoulder. “But you may be sure I shall trust you for the future, for my own sake. I have suffered dreadfully since yesterday afternoon.”
“I know that, and you deserve a severe snubbing; only I am so weak where you are concerned, that, if I began to scold, I should end ignominiously by caressing you, I fancy.”
“And what a nice ending, dear.”
Lawrence was only a man, and his wife was very fair; so that we may be sure he readily responded to this naive invitation. But he had a mind to improve the occasion before he let the subject drop; so he gave her a little lecture on the terrible result of any want of confidence between husband and wife; and she was so glad to be forgiven, that she not only promised all he required, but even forgot to remind him that he did not always practise what he preached.