For not the first time in his life Edward wished that his wife would give him a holiday from the dry irony whose use had become a second nature to her, but he did not, it is needless to say, tell her so, and Mrs. Tancred continued in the same strain—
“She repeated what a noble character he was; but said that in this case it was some woman-friend whom she needed to cling to. I was unable to advise her to cling to”—“Catherine Aylmer” was on her tongue, but she substituted—“the ladies of the Aylmer family in their present frame of mind.”
Edward suggested weakly, “Meg, perhaps?”
“Meg was sent away this morning.”
“And Miss Barnacre?”
“No, they have kept her. They think that she will be invaluable to them.”
He gave a slight shudder, and glanced at the clock. It pointed to 10.30. For five mortal hours the lions had been crunching the tender bones of the little new Daniel.
“It seems,” continued his wife, “that she has always liked women better than men.” An arid little laugh showed how much credit Camilla attached to the statement. “I wonder, while she was about it, that she did not add that her mother had done the same.” After a pause, “She must indeed have been in sore need of some one to cling to, for she tried to cling to me!”
There was an angry ring in the voice that uttered the last clause, which showed Mr. Tancred that his wife had not been so untouched by poor Miss Bonnybell’s frantic gymnastics as she wished it to be believed; and for the first time he felt less intolerably grated upon by her tone.
“Are you determined to make her always carry that unfortunate mother upon her back?” he asked, rather wearily. “The poor creature will have enough to do through life to get away from her without your help.”