"Adela," he said, quietly drawing her to a sofa and sitting down beside her, "I have long wanted a few minutes' serious talk with you; and I have put it off from day to day, for the subject is full of pain to me, as it ought to be to you. Of shame, I had almost said."
She turned her lovely eyes upon him. He could see the hard and defiant expression they took, even in the twilight gloom.
"You may spare yourself the trouble of a lecture—if that is what you intend. It will do me no good."
"Whether it will do you good or not, you must hear it. Your behaviour——"
She interrupted him, humming a merry tune.
"Adela, listen to me," he resumed; and perhaps it was the first time she had heard from him so peremptory a tone. "Your behaviour is not what it ought to be; it is not wise or seemly; and you must alter it."
"So you have told me ever since we were married, all the four years and odd months," she said, with a half-playful, half-mocking laugh.
"Of your behaviour to me I have told you so repeatedly and uselessly that I have now dropped the subject for ever. What I would speak of is your behaviour to young Cleveland. The world is beginning to notice it; and, Adela, what is objectionable in it shall be discontinued."
"There is nothing objectionable—except in your imagination."
"There is: and you know it, Adela. You may treat me as you like; I cannot, unfortunately, alter that; but I will guard you from being talked about. As to Cleveland——"