He seemed also to have been an English member
of Parliament for a time. In any case he had lived, apparently for years,
like other men of his kind--shooting, racing, visiting, travelling,
fighting, elections. She could not fit the facts to which both alluded
with her own recollections of the misanthrope who had first made
acquaintance with her and her family in Florence three years before this
date; and her bewilderment grew.
As for the others, they had soon, it seemed, completely forgotten the
thin sallow-faced wife, who sat with her back to the window, restlessly
twisting her rings.
Presently Melrose stopped abruptly--in front of Lady Tatham.
"Where is Edith?" He bent forward peremptorily, his hand on the table,
his eyes on the lady's face.
"At the Cape with her husband."
"Has she found him out yet?"
"There's nothing to find out. He's an excellent fellow."
"A stupid prig," said Melrose passionately. "Well, you did it!--You did
it!"
"Yes, I did it." Lady Tatham rose quietly. She had paled, and after a
minute's hesitation she held out her hand to Melrose. "Suppose, Edmund,
we bury the hatchet. I should like to be friends with you and your wife,
if you would allow it?"
The change of manner was striking. Up to this moment Lady Tatham had
been, so to speak, the aggressor, venturing audaciously on ground which
she knew to be hostile--from bravado?--or for some hidden reason? But she
spoke now with seriousness--even with a touch of womanly kindness.
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