"Ah, Cecil, do be nice to me," she murmured. "You were so gentle and kind this afternoon."
"'Gentle and kind!' Oh, Lord!" he went off into a sort of frenzy of smothered laughter. "'Gentle and kind'—that's your ideal of manhood—husbandhood—— Eh? What?"
Sophy retreated from him. She remained standing, very quiet, very pale, her lips pressed together.
"As for being nice to you," he continued between his chuckles, "I thought it was your offspring you wanted me to be nice to."
Sophy said nothing. She was so angry, and so mortified at her own lack of self-command in allowing him to make her angry, that she was literally afraid to speak.
Chesney got up and lounged towards her.
"Look here," he said, putting his face close to hers. "I'd like you to realise, once for all, that that boy is mine as well as yours—at least I hope he is——" he interpolated brutally. "And what's more, if I choose to, I'll go upstairs this moment and thrash him in his crib!"
There is no doubt of it. At that moment Sophy felt the full force of the expression to have murder in one's heart. In her heart there was certainly murder. She felt herself saying over and over in thought, as to some Dark Power: "Let him fall dead. Let him fall dead. Before he can touch my son—let him fall dead, dead."
"Pfew! What eyes!" said Chesney, somewhat sobered. "You look a regular Jael—glowering at me like that...."
Sophy's eyes blazed on. She felt them burning in her head. She said nothing.