Ordinarily, this was a household of hilarious temperament. Life had been
good to the Briscoes, and they loved it. They were fond of rich viands,
old wines, genial talk, good stories, practical jests, music, and sport;
the wife herself being more than a fair shot, a capital whip, and a
famous horsewoman. Even when there was no stranger within the gates, the
fires would flare merrily till midnight, the old songs echo, and the
hours speed away on winged sandals. But this evening neither host nor
hostess could originate a sentence in the presence of what seemed to
their sentimental persuasions the awful tragedy of two hearts. Indeed,
conversation on ordinary lines would have been impossible, but that Bayne
with an infinite self-confidence, as it seemed to Mrs. Briscoe, took the
centre of the stage and held it. All Bayne's spirit was up! The poise and
reserve of his nature, his habit of sedulous self-control, were
reasserted. He could scarcely forgive himself their momentary lapse. He
felt it insupportable that he should not have held his voice to normal
steadiness, his pulses to their wonted calm, in meeting again this woman
who had wrought him such signal injury, who had put upon him such
insufferable indignity.
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