been, how much anger he had expressed, how far he had been from
having his arm round his wife's waist as he spoke to her, he almost
made up his mind to go upstairs and to apologise. But he was one
to whose nature the giving of any apology was repulsive. He could
not bear to have to own himself to have been wrong. And then his
wife had been most provoking in her manner to him. When he had
endeavoured to make her understand his wishes by certain disparaging
hints which he had thrown out as to Colonel Osborne, saying that
he was a dangerous man, one who did not show his true character,
a snake in the grass, a man without settled principles, and such
like, his wife had taken up the cudgels for her friend, and had
openly declared that she did not believe a word of the things that
were alleged against him. 'But still for all that it is true,'
the husband had said. 'I have no doubt that you think so,' the wife
had replied. 'Men do believe evil of one another, very often. But
you must excuse me if I say that I think you are mistaken. I have
known Colonel Osborne much longer than you have done, Louis, and
papa has always had the highest opinion of him.' Then Mr Trevelyan
had become very angry, and had spoken those words which he could
not recall. As he walked to and fro among his books downstairs,
he almost felt that he ought to beg his wife's pardon. He knew his
wife well enough to be sure that she would not forgive him unless he
did so. He would do so, he thought, but not exactly now. A moment
would come in which it might be easier than at present. He would
be able to assure her when he went up to dress for dinner, that
he had meant no harm. They were going out to dine at the house of
a lady of rank, the Countess Dowager of Milborough, a lady standing
high in the world's esteem, of whom his wife stood a little in awe;
and he calculated that this feeling, if it did not make his task
easy would yet take from it some of its difficulty. Emily would