This occurred at midnight, in that half-armoury, half-library, which was
his private room.

Rosamund heard their voices below. She cried out to herself that it was
her doing, and blamed her beloved, and her master, and Dr. Shrapnel, in
the breath of her self-recrimination. The demagogue, the over-
punctilious gentleman, the faint lover, surely it must be reason wanting
in the three for each of them in turn to lead the other, by an excess of
some sort of the quality constituting their men's natures, to wreck a
calm life and stand in contention! Had Shrapnel been commonly reasonable
he would have apologized to Mr. Romfrey, or had Mr. Romfrey, he would not
have resorted to force to punish the supposed offender, or had Nevil, he
would have held his peace until he had gained his bride. As it was; the
folly of the three knocked at her heart, uniting to bring the heavy
accusation against one poor woman, quite in the old way: the Who is she?
of the mocking Spaniard at mention of a social catastrophe. Rosamund had
a great deal of the pride of her sex, and she resented any slur on it.
She felt almost superciliously toward Mr. Romfrey and Nevil for their not
taking hands to denounce the plotter, Cecil Baskelett. They seemed a
pair of victims to him, nearly as much so as the wretched man Shrapnel.
It was their senselessness which made her guilty! And simply because she
had uttered two or three exclamations of dislike of a revolutionary and
infidel she was compelled to groan under her present oppression! Is
there anything to be hoped of men? Rosamund thought bitterly of Nevil's
idea of their progress. Heaven help them! But the unhappy creatures
have ceased to look to a heaven for help.

We see the consequence of it in this Shrapnel complication.