“Not since she knew the situation. We often learn a lesson when it’s too late to profit by the knowledge, and it’s for you to judge if that will be the case with Medora. I’m only raising the question, and I don’t want to fill her head with false hopes. She’s been too much of a lady to say anything out; but she’s shown her feelings on the subject in a good many ways.”
“She’s fed up with you, in fact?”
“Yes; I believe that is so. In a way, to use a homely sort of illustration, what we did was to keep company—no more than that; and that showed her very clear I’m not the right company; and it’s shown me, as I say, I’m not a marrying man. So there it is. I can promise you your wife will want for nothing, and I shall regard her destiny as in my hands in future, if you’re off her for good. And if you change your mind and divorce her, I’ll swear it won’t be me that marries her. That you can take on oath. I’ll tell her so to-day.”
Kellock rose to go, and Ned remained silent and seated.
“Remember, if you do see her, you’ll see a wiser and sadder woman,” the vatman ventured to add.
“No doubt. You’d make anybody sadder and wiser. When are you going to try for your stroke again?”
“I don’t know.”
“Nobody will pity you when they hear how you lost it.”
“You’ll find Mrs. Dingle along with her people at Priory Farm if you want her. She means to come to my lecture next week; but not if you’ve any objection, of course. And I beg you to understand that I’m heartily sorry for what I’ve done, and I’m punished a lot worse than you could punish me. To lose my stroke is nought; to lose my self-respect is everything.”
“You’ll get ’em both back—such an amazing creature as you,” said Dingle dourly.