He looked at her like a conqueror. He had taught her a thing or two.
He had been a man. He was proud of himself. He was proud of all sorts
of details in his conduct. The fifty pounds in notes, for example, was
not an accident. Since the death of his father, he had formed the habit
of never leaving his base of supplies without a provision far in excess
of what he was likely to need. He was extravagant in nothing, but the
humiliations of his penurious youth and early manhood had implanted in
him a morbid fear of being short of money. He had fantastically
surmised circumstances in which he might need a considerable sum at
Brighton. And lo! the sequel had transformed his morbidity into
prudence.
"This time yesterday," he reflected, in his triumph, "I hadn't even seen
her, and didn't know where she was. Last night I was a fool. Half an
hour ago she herself hadn't a notion that I was going to get the upper
hand of her... Why, it isn't two days yet since I left home! ... And
look where I am now!"
With pity and with joy he watched her slowly wiping her eyes.
Thirty-four, perhaps; yet a child--compared to him! But if she did not
give a natural ingenuous smile of relief, it was because she could not.
If she acted foolishly it was because of her tremendous haughtiness.
However, he had lowered that. He had shown her her master. He felt
that she had been profoundly wronged by destiny, and that gentleness
must be lavished upon her.
In a casual tone he began to talk about the most rapid means of getting
rid of the bailiff. He could not tolerate the incubus of the bailiff a
moment longer than was absolutely unavoidable. At intervals a misgiving
shot like a thin flying needle through the solid satisfaction of his
sensations: "She is a strange and an incalculable woman--why am I doing
this?" Shot, and was gone, almost before perceived!