Her practical reverie, so to speak, continued until she was rung for to dress her mistress for dinner.
Griffith was so upset, so agitated and restless, he could not stay long in any one place, not even in the "Red Lion." So he came home to dinner, though he had mighty little appetite for it. And this led to another little conjugal scene.
Mrs. Gaunt mounted the great oak staircase to dress for dinner, languidly, as ladies are apt to do, when reflection and regret come after excitement.
Presently she heard a quick foot behind her: she knew it directly for her husband's, and her heart yearned. She did not stop, nor turn her head: womanly pride withheld her from direct submission; but womanly tenderness and tact opened a way to reconciliation. She drew softly aside, almost to the wall, and went slower; and her hand, her sidelong drooping head, and her whole eloquent person, whispered plainly enough, "If somebody would like to make friends, here is the door open."
Griffith saw, but was too deeply wounded: he passed her without stopping (the staircase was eight feet broad).
But as he passed he looked at her and sighed, for he saw she was sorry.
She heard, and sighed too. Poor things, they had lived so happy together for years.
He went on.
Her pride bent: "Griffith!" said she, very timidly. He turned and stopped at that.
"Sweetheart," she murmured, "I was to blame. I was ungenerous. I forgot myself. Let me recall my words. You know they did not come from my heart."