In the meantime Mr. Sandford sent for Mrs. Dorriman. He could not be happy till he had spoken to her about this. He did not choose that she should be bullied but he also did not choose that she should have old servants and people in her interests at hand.
"Who is this person living here, and in your confidence?" he asked roughly.
"My old maid, Jean."
"What made you bring her?"
"I did not bring her; but, supposing I had, if I did not bring her to your house, it cannot matter."
"It matters, because you are keeping to my wish ostensibly, but, in reality, you are opposing it."
"I do not pretend to understand you," and Mrs. Dorriman's spirit rose. This was going too far. "You break up my home; you bring me here; you deprive me of the comfort of my personal attendant—and to what end? What is the use of my being here?"
"Of course you cannot understand. You cannot afford a separate house. There are certain papers your husband had, which might have made all different. You might," and he looked at her earnestly and anxiously, "have found receipts and be better off; but the purport of everything would have to be explained to you, and, after all that has come and gone between me and your husband, it would be as well not to let a stranger step in."
Mrs. Dorriman shrank. She also had this fear; but we say a thing to ourselves that we cannot bear to put into words, and now it was dreadful to her to hear this. Her spirit died again, and she said helplessly—
"I cannot give up seeing Jean."