For she
divined with cruel certainty that it was not the principle that made
him unyielding.
'Richard, are you sure that the man has offended before?'
'Oh, of course he has. I've no doubt of it. I remember feeling
uncertain when I admitted him first of all. I didn't like his look.'
'But you have not really had to complain of him before. Your
suspicions _may_ be groundless. And he has a good wife, I feel sure
of that. The children are very clean and nicely dressed. She will
help him to avoid drink in future. It is impossible for him to fail
again, now that he knows how dreadful the results will be to his
wife and his little girls.'
'Pooh! What does he care about them? If I begin letting men off in
that way, I shall be laughed at. There's an end of my authority.
Don't bother your head about them. I must go and get ready for
dinner.'
An end of _my_ authority. Yes, was it not the intelligence of her
maiden heart returning to her? She had no pang from the mere refusal
of a request of hers; Richard had never affected tenderness--not
what she understood as tenderness--and she did not expect it of him.
The union between them had another basis. But the understanding of
his motives was so terribly distinct in her! It had come all at
once; it was like the exposure of something dreadful by the sudden
raising of a veil.
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