Maxwell made his appearance an hour before dinner, and—having made up my mind—I received him with a cordiality which I did not feel.
"Well, here you are," he said, with a searching glance at me, "a regular married man after your lovely holiday tour. Enjoyed yourself?"
"Barbara has given you a full account, no doubt," I replied, all the evil that was in my nature aroused by his mocking voice; "judge from that."
"You must be a model husband, then," he said, laughing quietly to himself, "and she a model wife. I owe you an apology for not joining you on the Continent. The fact is"—he looked to see that Barbara was out of hearing—"I was not traveling alone, and upon considering the matter I came to the conclusion that our company might not suit you. A question of morals, you know."
"I am obliged to you."
"For keeping away? Good. One to you. Where are you going, Barbara?"
"Domestic affairs," she replied. "To do the cooking." And she left the room.
"Was your accident very serious?" I asked.
"Accident!" he exclaimed. "What accident?"
"Then you did not meet with one?"