The retort moved him, for he heard in it the cry of her wounded pride. He longed to be able to cry out in return that Westmore was nothing to him, that all he asked was to see her happy.… But it was not true, and his manhood revolted from the deception. Besides, its effect would be only temporary—would wear no better than her vain efforts to simulate an interest in his work. Between them, forever, were the insurmountable barriers of character, of education, of habit—and yet it was not in him to believe that any barrier was insurmountable.
“Bessy,” he exclaimed, following her, “don’t let part in this way"
She paused with her hand on her dressing-room door. “It is time to dress for church,” she objected, turning to glance at the little gilt clock on the chimney-piece.
“For church?” Amherst stared, wondering that at such a crisis she should have remained detached enough to take note of the hour.
“You forget,” she replied, with an air of gentle reproof, “that before we married I was in the habit of going to church every Sunday.”
“Yes—to be sure. Would you not like me to go with you?” he rejoined gently, as if roused to the consciousness of another omission in the long list of his social shortcomings; for church-going, at Lynbrook, had always struck him as a purely social observance.
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