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.