In a somewhat abrupt manner he made his unexpected announcement. True to her determination, that on her side there should be no shortcoming, she answered quietly enough though at heart by no means as unmoved as she appeared:
“Very well. I suppose you have told Mrs. Parker. Do you wish me to be at dinner?”
He looked up, slightly surprised. Then answered rather shortly, as had of late become a habit with him. “Of course. Why not? I never thought of your not being at dinner.”
“Very well,” she replied again; but added, rather stiffly—“In this case, perhaps you will tell me the gentleman’s name. It might be awkward for me not to have heard it.”
All this time Geoffrey’s attention had been greatly engrossed by several letters, printed reports, &c., which he had been reading as he eat his luncheon. For a minute or two he made no reply, seemed not to have heard her question; a trifling neglect, which Marion in her present frame of mind found peculiarly irritating. She sat perfectly still, but no answer being apparently forthcoming, she, having finished her luncheon, rose quietly to leave the room, and had the door-handle in her hand before Geoffrey noticed that she had left the table. The noise of the door opening roused him.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, hastily starting up. “You spoke to me. It was very rude of me, but I did not pay attention to what you said. Please tell me what it was.”
“It was of no consequence, thank you,” replied Marion, coldly, as she swept past him and crossed the hall to the drawing-room.
This was how, silly child, she performed her wifely part to the very letter of the law!
But Geoffrey followed her, after delaying a few moments to collect the papers in which he had been so absorbed, and carry them for safety to his private den. This was at the other side of the house, so two or three minutes passed before he gently opened the drawing-room door, intending to apologise still more earnestly to his wife for his inattention. Marion was sitting on the rug before the fire; for, though it was now early spring, it was very chilly; her face he could not at first see, it was hidden by her hands. But the slight noise he made on coming in disturbed her. She looked up hastily, with rather an angry light in her eyes, imagining it was the servant entering, with the everlasting excuse of “looking at the fire,” and feeling annoyed at the intrusion. But when she saw it was her husband her expression changed, and without speaking she quickly turned her face aside. Not so quickly, though, but what Geoffrey perceived what she wished to conceal--she was crying. It was the first time since their marriage he had seen her shed tears. (What different tales that simple little sentence may tell!) It smote him to the heart. With da sudden impulse he approached her, and stooped down, gently laying his hand on her shoulder: “My poor child,” he said, with all the tenderness in his voice that the words could contain, “forgive me. You have enough to bear without my boorishness wounding you so unnecessarily.”
Her tears fell faster, but she did not shrink from his touch. She felt ashamed of her petulance and childishness. “It is not that,” she said at last, trying to repress her sobs.