'Well, my dear, what am I to say? You would not wish me to tell a
fib. I don't like Mrs Harold Smith--at least, what I know of her;
for it has not been my fortune to meet her since her marriage. It
may be conceited; but to own the truth, I think that Mr Robarts
would be better off with us at Framley than with the Harold Smiths
at Chaldicotes--even though Mrs Proudie be thrown into the
bargain.'

It was nearly dark, and therefore the rising colour in the face of
Mrs Robarts could not be seen. She, however, was too good a wife
to hear these things said without some anger within her bosom. She
could blame her husband in her own mind; but it was intolerable to
her that others should blame him in her hearing.

'He would undoubtedly be better off,' she said; 'but then, Lady
Lufton, people can't always go exactly where they will be best
off. Gentlemen sometimes think--'

'Well--well, my dear, that will do. He has not taken you, at any
rate; and so we will forgive him.' And Lady Lufton kissed her. 'As
it is,' and she affected a low whisper between the two young wives
'as it is, we must e'en put up with poor Evan Jones. He is to be
here to-night, and we must go and dress to receive him.'

And so they went off. Lady Lufton was quite enough at heart to
like Mrs Robarts all the better for standing up for her absent
lord.