"Well, it's all the same. And I must confess it is most extraordinary conduct. To refuse a gentleman's visits—his open visits here—on the pretext that he is not good enough for your society, and then to meet him, sit with him, walk with him in the college grounds. What will people say."
Christian turned like a hunted creature at bay, "I do not care—not a jot, what people say."
"I thought not. People like you never do care. They fly in the face of society; they—"
"Husband!" with a sort of wild appeal, the first she had ever made for protection—for at least justice.
Dr. Grey looked up, started out of a long fit of thoughtfulness—sadness it might be, during which he had let the conversation pass him by.
"The only thing I care for is what my husband thinks. If he blames me—"
"For what, my dear?"
"Because, when I was walking in the college grounds, as any lady may walk, that man, Sir Edwin Uniacke, whose acquaintance I desire as little as you do, came up and spoke to me, or rather to Arthur. I could not help it, could I?"
"No, my child," with a slight emphasis on the words "my child," that went to Christian's heart. Yes, surely, if she had only had courage to tell him, in his large tenderness he could have understood that childish folly, the dream of a day, and the long misery it had brought her. She would tell him all the very first opportunity; however much it pained and humiliated her, she would tell her good husband all.
"And, papa, have I been naughty too?" said Arthur? "I am sure I did not see any thing so very dreadful in Sir Edwin. He came up and spoke to mother as if he knew her quite well, and then he talked ever so much to me, and said if I would visit him he would give me a boat to row, and a horse to ride. And I'm sure he seemed the very kindest, pleasantest gentleman."