"A great deal is the matter," she replied resentfully. "I am not going to put up with it."
"Put up with what?"
"Oh—with Lord Level. With his—his deceit. But I can't tell you now, Charles: I shall speak to himself first."
I laughed. "More jealousy cropping up! What has he done now, Blanche?"
"What has he gone to Marshdale for?" retorted Blanche, her cheeks flaming. "And what did he go to Pisa for when we were last in Paris?" continued she, without any pause. "He did go. It was in December; and he was away ten days."
"Well,' I suppose some matter or other called him there," I said. "As to Marshdale—it is his place; his home. Why should this annoy you, Blanche? A man cannot carry his wife with him everywhere."
"I know," she said, catching up her fan, and beginning to use it sharply. "I know more than you do, Charles. More than he thinks for—a great deal more."
"It strikes me, my dear, that you are doing your best to estrange your husband from you—if you speak to him as you are speaking now. That will not enhance your own happiness, Blanche."
"The fault is his," she cried, turning her hot face defiantly upon me.
"It may be. I don't think so."