Her acting under the dictate of it struck the husband's ribbed breast as a positive clap of hostilities between them across a chasm.
His previous placable mood was immediately conceived by him to have been one of his fits of generosity; a step to a frightful dutiful embrace of an almost repulsive object.

He flung the thought of her back on her Whitechapel.

She returned from that place with smiles, dressed in a laundry white with a sprinkle of smuts, appearing to him as an adversary armed and able to strike.

There was a blow, for he chewed resentments; and these were goaded by a remembered shyness of meeting her eyes when he rounded up the slope of the hill, in view of his castle, where he supposed she would be awaiting 'my husband.' The silence of her absence was lively mockery of that anticipation.
Gower came on him sauntering about the grounds.
'You're not very successful down here,' Fleetwood said, without greeting.
'The countess likes the air of this country,' said Gower, evasively, impertinently, and pointlessly; offensively to the despot employing him to be either subservient or smart.
'I wish her to leave it.' 'She wishes to see you first.' 'She takes queer measures.

I start to-morrow for my yacht at Cardiff.' There the matter ended; for Fleetwood fell to talking of the mines.