This gave Elizabeth a chance to air a grievance which she had been cherishing ever since the dinner at Belfield. Mrs. Blair was an uncommonly level-headed woman, and if any one had suggested a doubt of her husband to her, nothing could have exceeded her righteous resentment towards the suggestor. But there never had been a time in all their married life that Mrs. Blair had not fancied Blair’s admiration fixed upon some girl in the county, who nine times out of ten bored him to death, and Mrs. Blair was always ready with a few tears and a reproach or two on the subject of these imaginary injuries.
“Yes,� she said, withdrawing with an offended air from his encircling arm, “you can say these things to me now, but ever since that night at Belfield, when you never took your eyes off Sylvia Shapleigh, you have been thinking a great deal too much about her.�
“Elizabeth,� said Blair solemnly, “you are a fool,� and then he suddenly burst out laughing—a genuine laugh, inspired by the perfect absurdity of the thing.
“And you won’t deny it?� asked Elizabeth, trying feebly to maintain her position.
“Of course not,� answered Blair, becoming serious. “If you were a man I should knock you down. As you are a woman, I can’t, but I decline to take any notice of what you say. This is the seventeenth girl, I believe, that you have accused me of making eyes at.�
Elizabeth condescended to smile at this, and harmony was in a fair way to be restored between them. But after a moment Elizabeth said:
“There is something else, though, which troubled me that night. It was at the dinner table.�
Blair knew in an instant that she meant his increased subscription to the Jockey Club, but he asked what she meant.
“Can you ask me?� replied Elizabeth.
“The devil I can,� cried Blair, dropping at once into the ordinary, every-day, vexed-husband’s tone. “Look here, Elizabeth, didn’t you encourage me?�