“No, not you.”
“Yes; a woman can’t do that sort of thing without the world believing that her husband knew about it. And that’s not all. Upon my word I’m not sure whether what she did this morning isn’t worse than what you saw last night.”
Millie leaned forward.
“Tell me,” she said, “if it doesn’t hurt you too much.”
He decided it did not hurt him too much.
“Well, I came down this morning,” he said, “willing and eager to make the best of a bad job. So were we all: James Westbourne last night was just as generous, and asked the reporters to say nothing about it, and invited me to a day’s shooting next week. Very decent of him. As I say, I came down this morning, willing to make it as easy as I could. Of course, I knew I had to give Amy a good talking to: I should utterly have failed in my duty to her as a husband if I did not do that. I gave her a blowing-up, though not half of what she deserved, but a blowing up. Even then, when I had said my say I told her we would live it down together, which was sufficiently generous, I think. But, for her good, I told her that James Westbourne said he saw she was unwell, and that when a man says that he means that she is drunk. Perhaps Westbourne didn’t mean that, but that’s what it sounded like. And would you believe it, just because I hadn’t knocked him down and stamped on his face, she tells me I ought to apologize to her for letting such a suggestion pass. Well, I flared up at that: what man of spirit wouldn’t have flared up? I left the house at once, and went and finished my breakfast at the club. I should have choked—upon my word, I should have choked if I had stopped there, or got an apoplexy. As it is, I feel devilish unwell.”
Millie got up, and stood for a moment in silence, looking out of the window, white and willowy.
“I can never forgive Cousin Amy,” she said at length. “Never!”
“Well, it is hard,” said Major Ames. “And after all these years! It isn’t exactly the return one might expect, perhaps.”
“It is infamous,” said Millie.