'Have you any fault to find with me, Bruce?'
'Edith, you are a perfect mother,' he said in a peculiar tone which sounded to Edith like an echo of Madame Frabelle. 'I've no fault to find with you either as a wife. But I'm not happy here. I'm miserable. I implore you not to make a scene. Don't oppose me; forgive me—on account of my health. This will save my life.'
If he only knew how little she wished to oppose him! She stood up.
'Bruce, you shall do exactly as you like!'
He looked enchanted, relieved.
'I hope you will be happy and well, and I shall try to be. May I just ask—is Madame Frabelle going to America?'
'Edith, I will not deny it. We mean to throw in our lot together! Look out! You'll have the inkstand over!' She had moved near the writing-table.
Edith stopped herself from a hysterical laugh.
'You won't mind if I go down to the club for an hour?'
'Certainly not.'