"You don't mean to tell me," he went on, "that you're blind?"
Then he said some things, in a low tone, that I—I really can't write. They were horrible. They sent the blood rushing to my face. They impelled me back to the day we engaged Olga, when a strange idea had occurred to me, that I had banished instantly. So thoroughly had I banished it, that it had never occurred again, and came to me now as a sheer and odious novelty. Tamworth could have no object in making these suggestions to me. He was undoubtedly in earnest. Yet it seemed so ridiculous and so lacking in—er—etiquette. Olga was such a pleasant, good-natured person. Still, I was bound to admit that even pleasant, good-natured persons—
I rose, and began to walk up and down, mentally cursing my guest. In return for bread, he had made me uncomfortable. It was quite a ticklish position in which I found myself. The question must be discussed with Letitia, and—Quixotic, or some other "otic," though it may sound—the notion of such a discussion was most distasteful to me. Aunt Julia would have called me an idiot; perhaps I was an idiot; still, because a pretty girl happens to be a man's wife, it does seem distressing that he should moot topics with her, that, if she were somebody else's wife, would remain unmooted.
Tamworth said no more on the subject; he evidently considered that he had done his duty, and had no further mission to fulfil. When we joined Letitia in the drawing-room, Tamworth and my wife monopolized the conversation. I could not take part in it; I felt too oppressed by the sudden apparition of the serpent that had appeared in our Eden. Letitia tried to include me in the small-talk, but she did not succeed. I sat, plunged in thought, dreading to think of Tamworth's departure, when I felt that I should be forced to disconcert Letitia. And she had been so happy for a few weeks, poor girl! Possibly, Tamworth was what they call an "alarmist." I could guarantee him no more dinners in my house.
At last he went, and we were alone. I made up my mind, while he was putting on his bonnet and shawl outside, that I would defer my discussion with Letitia until the morning. It would come better at the boiled-egg moment, when we were quite calm and dispassionate. Moreover, I could brood over it all night, and wisdom might come to me in that way.
"How quiet you were, Archie," said Letitia, "and what a time you and Mr. Tamworth were over your cigars! What were you talking about?"
I made a bold stroke. "Tamworth," I replied in solemn, funereal tones, "was talking about Olga."
"The dinner certainly was excellent," said Letitia proudly, "and I'm glad we invited him. So he talked about Olga? I noticed, Archie, that he was staring at her, in really a rude way, while we were dining. I couldn't help thinking that perhaps Mr. Tamworth is a—flirt!"
What a tonic a laugh is! Letitia's little suggestion appealed to me as so inordinately funny—despite my absence of a sense of humor—that I fell back in my chair, convulsed. I laughed until the tears rolled down my cheeks. I had not made so merry since the visit of Miss Priscilla Perfoozle. I couldn't help picturing Tamworth's face, on learning that my wife had suggested the idea of his flirting with the winsome Miss Allallami. It did me good. I felt better immediately. The sinister aspect of things seemed less alarming.
"I don't see the joke," said Letitia. "If you are amused because you look upon Olga as too plain to be flirted with—well, all I can say is that every eye formeth its own beauty. Mr. Tamworth is seemingly very sedate, but still waters run deep. Really, Archie,"—as I continued to shake,—"I think you are very rude. Nothing annoys me more than to be laughed at."