Mr. Boscawen was deaf and dumb, upon principle, whenever Isabel began to converse. He led his wife to her mother, in silence, to pay her retiring compliments, and Christobelle accompanied them in their transit. When Isabel was deposited in her room, Mr. Boscawen began the evening lecture.
"Isabel, you shock me to death with your ignorance and indelicacy."
"I'm sure I was not indelicate, Mr. Boscawen. You are always finding fault, now I am married to you," sobbed Isabel.
"My love, you should not allude to your situation before gentlemen, or name Mrs. Tollemache in that extraordinary way."
"Well, I did not know there was any harm, Mr. Boscawen! I declare I wish I was not in any situation at all, for you carry me away from every pleasant amusement, and it makes this place as dull as Brierly."
"I am sorry you weep, my love, and find Brierly so dull. I hoped you would be happy here, at least, yet you hurt me by complaining and tears. My dear Isabel, don't be so childish."
"Well, I am a child, Mr. Boscawen. I'm only eighteen, next Sunday."
"I cannot bear to see you weep, Isabel;" and Mr. Boscawen hung tenderly over his wayward wife. "You will do yourself an injury."
Isabel had sufficient acuteness or instinct to perceive the source of her temporary power, and she employed the moment to advantage. Her sobs increased in vehemence.
"I only wished to—to wear—one little white feather—at my sister's wedding to-morrow—and you refused me, Mr. Boscawen."