“Not murder?” he ejaculated.
“No, sir; righteous vengeance. Were such a state of things possible now—though, of course, wives are now all pure, and priests all immaculate—I should recommend the same remedy. What, must you go? Well, good day; and pray excuse a scholar’s warmth. Actually, as I discussed that old monkish nonsense, I almost thought it real.”
He forced a feeble laugh, and then, with one long look at my wife, and a murmured “Good afternoon” to us both, retreated through the drawing-room doors. I sat still, as if intent on my book.
The moment he had gone, Ellen caught me wildly by the arm.
“George! look at me—speak to me!”
“Well?” I said, looking up quietly.
“What does it mean? Why did you tell that wild tale? You did not do it without a purpose.”
“Certainly not.”
She stood pale as death, clasping her hands together.
“You did not think—you could not, dare not—that——”