“Millicent will have to get over it as she may. Her feelings need scarcely be taken into consideration.”
Lady Cantourne made a little movement towards the door. There was much to see to—much of that women's work which makes weddings the wild, confused ceremonies that they are.
“I am afraid,” said Sir John, “that I never thought of taking them into consideration. As you know, I hardly considered yours. I hope I have not overdrawn that reserve.”
He had crossed the room as he spoke to open the door for her. His fingers were on the handle, but he did not turn it, awaiting her answer. She did not look at him, but past him towards the shaded lamp with that desire to fix her attention upon some inanimate object which he knew of old.
“The reserve,” she answered, “will stand more than that. It has accumulated—with compound interest. But I deny the debt of which you spoke just now. There is no debt. I have paid it, year by year, day by day. For each one of those fifty years of unhappiness I have paid a year—of regret.”
He opened the door and she passed out into the brilliantly lighted passage and down the stairs, where the servants were waiting to open the door and help her to her carriage.
Sir John did not go downstairs with her.
Later on he dined in his usual solitary grandeur. He was as carefully dressed as ever. The discipline of his household—like the discipline under which he held himself—was unrelaxed.
“What wine is this?” he asked when he had tasted the port.
“Yellow seal, sir,” replied the butler confidentially.