feeling to her neutrality and misconception—soon received a painfully strange explanation, alien to all her previous notions of what could affect her happiness. In the new gayety of her spirits, thinking that Lydgate had merely a worse fit of moodiness than usual, causing him to leave her remarks unanswered, and evidently to keep out of her way as much as possible, she chose, a few days after the meeting, and without speaking to him on the subject, to send out notes of invitation for a small evening party, feeling convinced that this was a judicious step, since people seemed to have been keeping aloof from them, and wanted restoring to the old habit of intercourse. When the invitations had been accepted, she would tell Lydgate, and give him a wise admonition as to how a medical man should behave to his neighbors; for Rosamond had the gravest little airs possible about other people’s duties. But all the invitations were declined, and the last answer came into Lydgate’s hands.
“This is Chichely’s scratch. What is he writing to you about?” said Lydgate, wonderingly, as he handed the note to her. She was obliged to let him see it, and, looking at her severely, he said—
“Why on earth have you been sending out invitations without telling me, Rosamond? I beg, I insist that you will not invite anyone to this house. I suppose you have been inviting others, and they have refused too.”
She said nothing.
“Do you hear me?” thundered Lydgate.
“Yes, certainly I hear you,” said Rosamond, turning her head aside with the movement of a graceful long-necked bird.
Lydgate tossed his head without any grace and walked out of the room, feeling himself dangerous.