"I was never a great talker, and I do not think I am in the habit of laughing more than other people."
"But you have not laughed at all,—all this evening, at least,"—with a smile,—"not since you discovered us in durance vile."
"Did you find the situation so unpleasant? I fancied it rather amused you,—so much so that you even appeared to forget the dignity that, as a married woman, ought to belong to you."
"Well, but!"—provokingly—"you forget how very little married I am."
"At all events you are my wife,"—rather angrily; "I must beg you to remember that. And for the future I shall ask you to refrain from such amusements as call for concealment and necessitate the support of a young man's arm."
"I really do not see by what right you interfere with either me or my amusements," says Cecil, hotly, after a decided pause. Never has he addressed her with so much sternness. She raises her eyes to his and colors richly all through her creamy skin. "Recollect our bargain."
"I do. I recollect also that you have my name."
"And you have my money. That makes us quits."
"I do not see how you intend carrying out that argument. The money was quite as much mine as yours."
"But you could not have had it without me."