Again he paused, trying to think what he had better do, trying to be calm. And she stood still opposite to him, confronting him with the scorn of her bright angry eyes. Of course, he was not calm. He was the very reverse of calm. "And you refuse to tell me what you wrote," he said.
"The letter is there," she answered, pointing away towards the door. "If you want to play the spy, go and look at it for yourself."
"Do you call me a spy?"
"And what have you called me? Because you are a husband, is the privilege of vituperation to be all on your side?"
"It is impossible that I should put up with this," he said;—"quite impossible. This would kill me. Anything is better than this. My present orders to you are not to see Colonel Osborne, not to write to him or have any communication with him, and to put under cover to me, unopened, any letter that may come from him. I shall expect your implicit obedience to these orders."
"Well;—go on."
"Have I your promise?"
"No;—no. You have no promise. I will make no promise exacted from me in so disgraceful a manner."
"You refuse to obey me?"
"I will refuse nothing, and will promise nothing."