“Well, Mark, to tell the truth she was; and we had quite a scene there up in her own room up-stairs,—Justinia and I. She had heard something else that she did not like at the same time; and then—but you know her way. She blazed up quite hot.”
“And said all manner of horrid things about me.”
“About the duke she did. You know she never did like the duke; and for the matter of that, neither do I. I tell you that fairly, Master Mark!”
“The duke is not so bad as he’s painted.”
“Ah, that’s what you say about another great person. However, he won’t come here to trouble us, I suppose. And then I left her, not in the best temper in the world; for I blazed up too, you must know.”
“I am sure you did,” said Mark, pressing his arm round her waist.
“And then we were going to have a dreadful war, I thought; and I came home and wrote such a doleful letter to you. But what should happen when I had just closed it, but in came her ladyship—all alone, and——. But I can’t tell you what she did or said, only she behaved beautifully; just like herself too; so full of love and truth and honesty. There’s nobody like her, Mark; and she’s better than all the dukes that ever wore—whatever dukes do wear.”
“Horns and hoofs; that’s their usual apparel, according to you and Lady Lufton,” said he, remembering what Mr. Sowerby had said of himself.
“You may say what you like about me, Mark, but you shan’t abuse Lady Lufton. And if horns and hoofs mean wickedness and dissipation, I believe it’s not far wrong. But get off your big coat and make yourself comfortable.” And that was all the scolding that Mark Robarts got from his wife on the occasion of his great iniquity.
“I will certainly tell her about this bill transaction,” he said to himself; “but not to-day; not till after I have seen Lufton.”