The fact was that in Florence the poor wretch had got hold of a
Tartar, compared with whom Leonora was a sucking kid. He must
have had a hell of a time. Leonora wanted to keep him for--what
shall I say--for the good of her church, as it were, to show that
Catholic women do not lose their men. Let it go at that, for the
moment. I will write more about her motives later, perhaps. But
Florence was sticking on to the proprietor of the home of her
ancestors. No doubt he was also a very passionate lover. But I am
convinced that he was sick of Florence within three years of even
interrupted companionship and the life that she led him. . . .

If ever Leonora so much as mentioned in a letter that they had had
a woman staying with them--or, if she so much as mentioned a
woman's name in a letter to me--off would go a desperate cable in
cipher to that poor wretch at Branshaw, commanding him on pain
of an instant and horrible disclosure to come over and assure her
of his fidelity. I daresay he would have faced it out; I daresay he
would have thrown over Florence and taken the risk of exposure.
But there he had Leonora to deal with. And Leonora assured him
that, if the minutest fragment of the real situation ever got through
to my senses, she would wreak upon him the most terrible
vengeance that she could think of. And he did not have a very
easy job. Florence called for more and more attentions from him
as the time went on. She would make him kiss her at any moment
of the day; and it was only by his making it plain that a divorced
lady could never assume a position in the county of Hampshire
that he could prevent her from making a bolt of it with him in her
train. Oh, yes, it was a difficult job for him.

For Florence, if you please, gaining in time a more composed view