It was a newer crisis in Rosamond’s experience than even Dorothea could imagine: she was under the first great shock that had shattered her dreamworld in which she had been easily confident of herself and critical of others; and this strange unexpected manifestation of feeling in a woman whom she had approached with a shrinking aversion and dread, as one who must necessarily have a jealous hatred towards her, made her soul totter all the more with a sense that she had been walking in an unknown world which had just broken in upon her.
When Rosamond’s convulsed throat was subsiding into calm, and she withdrew the handkerchief with which she had been hiding her face, her eyes met Dorothea’s as helplessly as if they had been blue flowers.
What was the use of thinking about behavior after this crying?
And Dorothea looked almost as childish, with the neglected trace of a silent tear. Pride was broken down between these two.
“We were talking about your husband,” Dorothea said, with some timidity. “I thought his looks were sadly changed with suffering the other day. I had not seen him for many weeks before. He said he had been feeling very lonely in his trial; but I think he would have borne it all better if he had been able to be quite open with you.”
“Tertius is so angry and impatient if I say anything,” said Rosamond, imagining that he had been complaining of her to Dorothea. “He ought not to wonder that I object to speak to him on painful subjects.”
“It was himself he blamed for not speaking,” said Dorothea. “What he said of you was, that he could not be happy in doing anything which made you unhappy—that his marriage was of course a bond which must affect his choice about everything; and for that reason he refused my proposal that he should keep his position at the Hospital, because that