“Regard—and more than regard—entered into it. But there was the difference of years. At my age one has not the adaptability of youth; one cannot change one’s ways, even if one wishes to. So I foresaw that with marriages of that sort a crisis sooner or later comes. Well, our crisis has come.”
“I—I am sure you are mistaken.”
“You heard what she said about Lady Jane boring her. Well, I bore her. Recently she has shown it plainly. In fact, that is why I went away—not to give myself, but to give her, a holiday.”
“My good sir,” said Mr. Ridsdale, earnestly, almost irritably, “I can assure you she has spoken of you every day in the most affectionate terms—regretting your absence, saying how she missed you, and so on.”
“Has she?” said the General, with a sigh. “That may have been from a sense of duty—contrition—remorse. Pity for the old fogey whose presence could but weary her.”
He got up, went to the drawing-room door, and opened it.
“Thank you, Cynthia. Charming! Don’t stop playing. Please go on,” and he shut the door again.
Ridsdale, rising from the table also, had gone to the fireplace. He pulled out a cambric handkerchief, and rubbed the palms of his hands with it. Then he put his hands in his pockets, and, standing with his back to the fire, turned towards the General, politely attentive to, if not cordially sympathetic with, the General’s doubts and fears.
“Now, look here, Ridsdale, that’s all about it. I’ve given you the facts, and I ask you to help me.”
“Delighted. But how could I possibly——”