"It is of no use your coming to Grosvenor
Place," she said. "I see nobody there, and the house is like a
prison." Later in the interview she told him not to come and dine
there, even though Mr. Kennedy should ask him.
"And why not?" he demanded.
"Because everything would be stiff, and cold, and uncomfortable. I
suppose you do not wish to make your way into a lady's house if she
asks you not." There was a sort of smile on her face as she said
this, but he could perceive that it was a very bitter smile. "You can
easily excuse yourself."
"Yes, I can excuse myself."
"Then do so. If you are particularly anxious to dine with Mr.
Kennedy, you can easily do so at your club." In the tone of her
voice, and the words she used, she hardly attempted to conceal her
dislike of her husband.
"And now tell me about Miss Effingham," he said.
"There is nothing for me to tell."
"Yes there is;--much to tell. You need not spare me. I do not pretend
to deny to you that I have been hit hard,--so hard, that I have been
nearly knocked down; but it will not hurt me now to hear of it all.
Did she always love him?"
"I cannot say. I think she did after her own fashion."
"I sometimes think women would be less cruel," he said, "if they knew
how great is the anguish they can cause.
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