“I think I’ll go home,” said George. “I am not company for a dog to-night.”
“Nonsense,” said Mr. Verrall. “The tables are ready. I want to give you your revenge.”
For once in his life—and it was a notable exception—George Godolphin actually resisted the temptation of the “tables;” the chance of “revenge.” He had a heavy trouble upon him; a great fear; perhaps more than Mr. Verrall knew of. Ay, he had! But who would have suspected it of gay, careless George, who had been so brilliant at the dinner-table? He forswore for that one night the attractions of the Folly, including syren Charlotte, and went straight home.
It was not much past ten when he reached the Bank. Maria was astonished: the Verrall dinner-parties were generally late affairs. She was sitting alone, reading. In her glad surprise she ran to him with an exclamation of welcome.
George pressed her tenderly to him, and his manner was gay and careless again. Whatever scandal Prior’s Ash might choose to talk of George, he had not yet begun to neglect his wife.
“It was rather humdrum, darling, and I got tired,” he said in answer to her questions. “What have you been doing with yourself? Have you been alone all the evening?”
“Since mamma left. She went home after tea. George, I want to tell you something mamma has been talking of; has been suggesting.”
George stretched himself on the sofa, as if he were weary. Maria edged herself on to it, and sat facing him, holding his hand while she talked.
“It was the new carriage that brought the subject up, George. Mamma introduced it this morning. She says we are living at too great an expense; that we ought not to spend more than half as much as we do——”
“What?” shouted George, starting up from the sofa as if he had been electrified.