head at her, husbanded or not, though the main fault was his, and she had
a right to insist that he should be sure of his charge before he smacked
her in the face with it before the world. In dealing with a woman, a man
commonly prudent--put aside chivalry, justice, and the rest--should bind
himself to disbelieve what he can't prove. Otherwise, let him expect his
whipping, with or without ornament. My opinion is, Lawrence Finchley had
no solid foundation for his charge, except his being an imbecile. She
wasn't one of the adventurous women to jump the bars,--the gate had to be
pushed open, and he did it. There she is; and I ask you, would my
brother Rowsley let his wife be intimate with her? And there are others.
And, sauf votre respect, the men--Morsfield for one, Randeller another!"

"They have a wholesome dread of the lion."

"If they smell a chance with the lion's bone--it's the sweeter for being
the lion's. These metaphors carry us off our ground. I must let these
Ormont Memoirs run and upset him, if they get to print. I've only to
oppose, printed they'll be. The same if I say a word of this woman, he
marries her to-morrow morning. You speak of my driving men. Why can't I
drive Ormont? Because I'm too fond of him. There you have the secret of
the subjection of women: they can hold their own, and a bit more, when
they've no enemy beating inside."

"Hearts!--ah, well, it's possible. I don't say no; I've not discovered
them," Lord Adderwood observed.

They are rarely discovered in the haunts he frequented.

Her allusion to Mrs. Lawrence Finchley rapped him smartly, and she
admired his impassiveness under the stroke. Such a spectacle was one of