She could never think without shivering of certain scenes, with
Coryston in the past--of a certain other scene that was still to come.
Well, it had been a duel between them; and after apparently sore defeat,
she had won, so far as influence over his father was concerned. And since
his father's death she had given him every chance. He had only to hold his
tongue, to keep his monstrous, _sans-culotte_ opinions to himself, at
least, if he could not give them up; and she would have restored him his
inheritance, would have dealt with him not only justly, but generously. He
had chosen; he had deliberately chosen. Well, now then it was for her--as
she had said to old Lady Frensham--it was for her to reply, but not in
words only.
She fell back upon the thought of Arthur, Arthur, her darling; so manly,
and yet so docile; so willing to be guided! Where was he, that she might
praise him for his speech? She turned, searching the dark doorway with her
eyes. But there was no Arthur, only the white head and smiling countenance
of her old friend, Sir Wilfrid Bury, who was beckoning to her. She
hurriedly bade Marcia, who had just returned to the Gallery, to keep her
seat for her, and went out into the corridor to speak to him.
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