They alighted at a gate on the Embankment, and made their way by a garden to a row of grave old houses, with a fine view of the river. Brian led his wife into one of these houses and up the uncarpeted stair to the third floor, where he ushered her into a room with two old-fashioned windows looking out upon grass, and trees, and old-fashioned buildings, all grave and gray, and having an air of sober peacefulness, as of a collegiate or monastic seclusion, while beyond the broad green lawn shone the broad blue river.
'What a nice old place!' said Ida, looking down at the garden. 'How quiet, how grave, how learned-looking! I don't wonder you like this pied-à-terre in London, as a change from your grand old Abbey.'
Brian gave a little nervous cough, as if something were choking him. He came to the window, and put his arm round his wife's waist.
'Ida,' he began, somewhat huskily, 'I am going to tell you a secret.'
'What is that?' she asked, turning and looking at him.
'The Abbey does not belong to me!'
'What?' she cried, with wide-open eyes.
'You have been rather fond of talking about the Abbey; but I hope your heart is not too much set upon it. You told me the other day, you know, that you did not value me upon account of the Abbey or my position as its owner. I hope that was the truth, Ida; for Wendover Abbey belongs to my cousin. You have married the poor Brian and not the rich one!'
'What?' she cried. 'You have lied to me all this time—you have fooled and deluded me!'
She turned and faced him with eyes that flamed indignant fire, lips that quivered with unrestrained passion.