I spoke brutally, as I felt; and, meeting the man’s pale, sad, astonished gaze, I became secretly humiliated. A husband, I perceive, is a ridiculous animal, and always at a disadvantage. I begin to understand how the poets, from Molière downwards, have made married men their shuttlecocks. A jealous lover has dignity; a jealous husband, none. Nobody sympathizes with my lord of Rimini, while all the world weeps for Lancelot and Francesca. Even Ford, ere he turns the tables on Sir John, poses as an ass. All the right was on my side, all the offended dignity, all the outraged honesty; yet somehow I felt, at that moment, like an ill-conditioned cur.
“I am not here in a religious capacity,” he replied courteously, “so your sneer is hardly fair. However, since I can be of no further service, I will go.”
He turned softly to Ellen, holding out his hand.
“Good-bye. I hope you will be better to-morrow.”
“Good-bye, and thank you,” she replied. “It was so good of you to bring me home.”
And so, with a courteous bow to me, which I returned with a nod, he retired victoriously. Yes, he had the best of it for the time being. For some minutes after he left, and while the scent of his perfumed handkerchief still filled the air, I stood moodily waiting. At last Ellen spoke.
“I hope you are not angry. What could I do? I could not come home in such pain, and no one else offered to escort me.”
“I did not ask you to excuse yourself,” I said coldly.
I saw the tears standing in her eyes. Her voice trembled as she murmured—
“I did not think you could have been so unkind!”