That night Miss Ransome begged to be excused from appearing at dinner, not unwilling that it should be known that her eyes were too extinguished with crying for her to be decently visible; and, as she reflected, “When you are in disgrace a consommé and the wing of a pheasant are better enjoyed beside your dressing-room fire than under the eyes of your exasperated patrons.”
The husband and wife faced each other in the gravity of their original tête-à-tête. Only such a thin rivulet of remarks irrigated the drought of their silence as saved them from provoking among their servants the comment that they must have had a “row.” Facing the Spartan abstinence of his companion, Edward was compelled to eat almost entirely alone, and even he had to force an appetite. When the men had finally retired—
“I suppose that you were”—he paused to reject one adjective and pick another—“rather severe to her?”
“I told her the truth.”
“Yes?”
“Do you wish to hear the exact words I used?”
“If you do not mind.”
“I told her that if a scullery-maid in my employment had behaved as she had done, I should have had her discharged on the spot without a character.”
“Thanks.”
“Thanks? What for?”