She paused at the gangway and listened, peering forward.
"Oh, banish me, my lord, but kill me not!" wailed the voice of Mrs.
Mortimer.
"Down, base one!" shouted her husband's.
"Kill me to-morrow; let me live to-night!"
"Nay, if you strive—a little more stress, dear, on 'to-night,' if I may suggest—Nay, if you strive—!"
"Shall we take it again, Stanislas? You used to take the pillow at
'Kill me not.'"
"I believe I did, my bud. We are rusty—a trifle rusty—the both of us."
"Kill me to-morrow; let me live—" entreated Mrs. Mortimer.
"What's all this, you two?" demanded Tilda, springing down the cabin steps and hurling herself between them.
"Hullo! Come in!" answered Mr. Mortimer genially. "This? Well, I hope it is an intellectual treat. I have always looked upon Mrs. Mortimer's Desdemona as such, even at rehearsal."