132 “I thought you wanted me—you told me so when we kissed in the park!” He cried. She put her hand in his to be squeezed. He had meant to be master of his fate that evening and it had escaped him altogether. . She did not want particularly to know what had caused his agony, what had driven him back to the old coat. “Annabel,” she said, “I have never asked you for your confidence. I said, ‘It is no use your telling me about this walk and pretend I’ve been told about the ball, because you haven’t. Lucy's ears were singing. That you are not Valade at all, and that I am Melusine Charvill, the granddaughter of monsieur le baron, the general. We do not remember to have met with a single individual, reported to be under petticoat government, who was not content with his lot,—nay, who so far from repining, did not exult in his servitude; and we see no way of accounting for this apparently inexplicable conduct—for which, among other phenomena of married life, various reasons have been assigned, though none entirely satisfactory to us—except upon the ground that these domineering dames possess some charm sufficiently strong to counteract the irritating effect of their tempers; some secret and attractive quality of which the world at large is in ignorance, and with which their husbands alone can be supposed to be acquainted.
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