Lady Rylton accepts the feeling as grief for the uncle's death; but Margaret, casting a swift glance at Mrs. Bethune, wonders if it was meant for grief for the uncle's life—with Lady Rylton.
"He was the ugliest man I ever saw, without exception," says Lady Rylton placidly; "and I was never for a moment blind to the fact, but he was well off at that time, and, of course, I married him. I wasn't in love with him." She pauses, and makes a little apologetic gesture with her fan and shoulders. "Horrid expression, isn't it?" says she. "In love! So terribly bourgeois. It ought to be done away with. However, to go on, you see how admirably my marriage turned out. Not a hitch anywhere. Your poor dear uncle and I never had a quarrel. I had only to express a wish, and it was gratified."
"Poor dear uncle was so clever," says Mrs. Bethune, with lowered lids.
Again Margaret looks at her, but is hardly sure whether sarcasm is really meant.
"Clever? Hardly, perhaps," says Lady Rylton meditatively. "Clever is scarcely the word."
"No, wise—wise is the word," says Mrs. Bethune.
Her eyes are still downcast. It seems to Margaret that she is inwardly convulsed with laughter.
"Well, wise or not, we lived in harmony," says Lady Rylton with a sigh and a prolonged sniff at her scent-bottle. "With us it was peace to the end."
"Certainly; it was peace at the end," says Mrs. Bethune solemnly.
It was, indeed, a notorious thing that the late Sir Maurice had lived in hourly fear of his wife, and had never dared to contradict her on any subject, though he was a man of many inches, and she one of the smallest creatures on record.