“Do you ever talk about Clive?” asks the husband.
“Never. Once, twice, perhaps, in the most natural manner in the world we mentioned where he is; but nothing further passes. The subject is a sealed one between us. She often looks at his drawings in my album (Clive had drawn our baby there and its mother in a great variety of attitudes), and gazes at his sketch of his dear old father: but of him she never says a word.”
“So it is best,” says Mr. Pendennis.
“Yes—best,” echoes Laura, with a sigh.
“You think, Laura,” continues the husband, “you think she——”
“She what?” What did Mr. Pendennis mean? Laura his wife certainly understood him, though upon my conscience the sentence went no further—for she answered at once:
“Yes—I think she certainly did, poor boy! But that, of course, is over now: and Ethel, though she cannot help being a worldly woman, has such firmness and resolution of character, that if she has once determined to conquer any inclination of that sort I am sure she will master it, and make Lord Farintosh a very good wife.”
“Since the Colonel’s quarrel with Sir Barnes,” cries Mr. Pendennis, adverting by a natural transition from Ethel to her amiable brother, “our banking friend does not invite us any more: Lady Clara sends you no cards. I have a great mind to withdraw my account.”
Laura, who understands nothing about accounts, did not perceive the fine irony of this remark: but her face straightway put on the severe expression which it chose to assume whenever Sir Barnes’s family was mentioned, and she said, “My dear, I am very glad indeed that Lady Clara sends us no more of her invitations. You know very well why I disliked them.”
“Why?”