than she went, and died, as you remember, in the spring.
Carfax.
Poor wife!
Dundas.
Poor husband!
Lord Burnley.
All the world heard of his bereavement, but nobody
was allowed to know how much he felt it. Parliament
never knew. Even his colleagues never knew.
Others.
Never!
Lord Burnley.
He had formed his own Ministry in the meantime,
and next day, after the funeral, found him on the
Treasury Bench as usual. Apparently the same man
as ever—proud, austere, reserved, unmoved, and
immovable. He had brought in his wife's sister.
Lady Dorothy, to look after his house and take care
of his little daughter, and . . . that was all.
Carfax.
All?
Lord Burnley.
All that was visible to the eye of the world, I
mean. Yes, a strange combination of the iron-willed
man and the tender-hearted sentimentalist, I admit.
But in danger from the scheming woman—no!
Under his stern and cold exterior his dead wife still
lives as in a shrine.
[Sir Robert returns to the room.
