A shadow crossed Mr Gresham’s face.
“What else can I do?” he inquired.
“Nothing,” Michael replied. “Most certainly nothing; but granting that she is all that I feel sure she must be, if there is any truth in the story, anything that a man could dislike his wife having been mixed up in, there is her point of view to be considered. She will not let it rest.”
“How do you mean?” said Bernard, raising his eyebrows.
“She will tell you about it herself, of course,” said Michael, curtly.
Bernard seemed considerably discomposed.
“You had better be prepared for the possibility,” Michael continued. “There is generally some root for gossip, however exaggerated. I advise you to face this for both your sakes.”
“You certainly are a Job’s comforter if ever there was one,” said his cousin, in a tone of annoyance. “Do you mean to say that I should make further inquiry, or give her an opportunity of explaining it before I commit myself? It would be so awkward, you see. I scarcely—”
“Good heavens! no,” said Michael, with angry contempt. “Would I suggest your insulting a woman? I am only forewarning you that if there is anything that requires explanation she will volunteer it, and on this account you had better be sure of your own mind, or you may find yourself in a very awkward position, to put it mildly.”
Mr Gresham’s perceptions were not of the order to detect the covert sarcasm of the last few words.