“I don’t know what you mean by curious,” said Ingram, coldly.
“Well, you know, strange—odd—unlike other people in her ways and her fancies. Did I tell you about my aunt taking her to see some friends of hers at Norwood? No? Well, Sheila had got out of the house somehow (I suppose their talking did not interest her), and when they went in search of her they found her in the cemetery, crying like a child.”
“What about?”
“Why,” said Lavender, with a smile, “merely because so many people had died. She had never seen anything like that before; you know the small church-yards up in Lewis, with their inscriptions in Norwegian and Danish and German. I suppose the first sight of all the white stones at Norwood was too much for her.”
“Well, I don’t see much of a joke in that,” said Ingram.
“Who said there was any joke in it?” cried Lavender, impatiently. “I never knew such a cantankerous fellow as you are. You are always fancying I am finding fault with Sheila, and I never do anything of the kind. She is a very good girl indeed. I have every reason to be satisfied with the way our marriage has turned out.”
“Has she?”
The words were not important, but there was something in the tone in which they were spoken that suddenly checked Frank Lavender’s careless flow of speech. He looked at Ingram for a moment with some surprise, and then he said, “What do you mean?”
“Well, I will tell you what I mean,” said Ingram, slowly. “It is an awkward thing for a man to interfere between husband and wife, I am aware—he gets something else than thanks for his pains, ordinarily—but sometimes it has to be done, thanks or kicks. Now, you know, Lavender, I had a good deal to do with helping forward your marriage in the North; and I don’t remind you of that to claim anything in the way of consideration, but to explain why I think I am called on to speak to you now.”
Lavender was at once a little frightened and a little irritated. He half guessed what might be coming, from the slow and precise manner in which Ingram talked. That form of speech had vexed him many a time before, for he would rather have had any amount of wild contention and bandying about of reproaches than the calm, unimpassioned and sententious setting forth of his shortcomings to which this sallow little man was, perhaps, too much addicted.