“But why, madam?” Twemlow ventures gently to argue. “Consider why the very same words? Because they state the fact. Because you have no proof.”
“Men are very wise in their way,” quoth Mrs. Lammle, glancing haughtily at the Snigsworth portrait, and shaking out her dress before departing; “but they have wisdom to learn. My husband, who is not over-confiding, ingenuous, or inexperienced, sees this plain thing no more than Mr. Twemlow does—because there is no proof! Yet I believe five women out of six, in my place, would see it as clearly as I do. However, I will never rest (if only in remembrance of Mr. Fledgeby’s having kissed my hand) until my husband does see it. And you will do well for yourself to see it from this time forth, Mr. Twemlow, though I can give you no proof.”
As she moves towards the door, Mr. Twemlow, attending on her, expresses his soothing hope that the condition of Mr. Lammle’s affairs is not irretrievable.
“I don’t know,” Mrs. Lammle answers, stopping, and sketching out the pattern of the paper on the wall with the point of her parasol; “it depends. There may be an opening for him dawning now, or there may be none. We shall soon find out. If none, we are bankrupt here, and must go abroad, I suppose.”
Mr. Twemlow, in his good-natured desire to make the best of it, remarks that there are pleasant lives abroad.
“Yes,” returns Mrs. Lammle, still sketching on the wall; “but I doubt whether billiard-playing, card-playing, and so forth, for the means to live under suspicion at a dirty table-d’hôte, is one of them.”