“Do you feel better and more comfortable now?” he said.
“No,” she replied, angry with herself for feeling both.
“Then,” he said cheerfully, as if she had uttered a hearty affirmative, “I will put some more coals on the fire, and we shall be as snug as possible. It makes me wildly happy to see you at my fireside, and to know that you are my own wife.”
“I wonder how you can look me in the face and say so,” she cried.
“I should wonder at myself if I could look at your face and say anything else. Oatmeal is a capital restorative; all your energy is coming back. There, that will make a magnificent blaze presently.”
“I never thought you deceitful, Sidney, whatever other faults you might have had.”
“Precisely, my love. I understand your feelings. Murder, burglary, intemperance, or the minor vices you could have borne; but deceit you cannot abide.”
“I will go away,” she said despairingly, with a fresh burst of tears. “I will not be laughed at and betrayed. I will go barefooted.” She rose and attempted to reach the door; but he intercepted her and said:
“My love, there is something serious the matter. What is it? Don’t be angry with me.”
He brought her back to the chair. She took Agatha’s letter from the pocket of her fur cloak, and handed it to him with a faint attempt to be tragic.