“Do you not understand me?” he cried at last, indignant: and then the rising excitement in Arthur’s mind burst forth.
“Durant, my wife has gone away to her mother’s. I—I can’t answer all at once.”
“What do you mean, Arthur? How disturbed you look! Has anything happened?” cried Durant. Arthur made an effort to recover himself. He laughed tremulously.
“You know me, Lewis,” he said, “I am a—nervous sort of fellow, though I don’t look it perhaps.”
“I know. There is something the matter, Arthur. What is it? Is your wife ill? What has happened?”
“Well—nothing has happened. I have been living rather a solitary life, and one gets irritable—and easily put out.”
“You have had a—difficulty, as the Americans call it—a lover’s quarrel,” said Durant, with a laugh, which was far from according with his feelings.
“That is just it. No, not a lover’s quarrel, but a difficulty. We see things from different points of view; and I don’t know how she will like this, I must wait. I cannot decide until I know.”
“Arthur, it is all very well, all very right to consult your wife; but you can’t think of neglecting such an opportunity. It is altogether unconditional. They will receive her, as if she were a Duke’s daughter; you know, when once they have made up their minds to it, there will be no stint, she will have no reason to complain of her reception.”
Arthur’s head was turned to the door.