His wife had recovered her breath, and was still hurling accusations and sneers at him. He had grown accustomed to let her rave, but now something she said caught his ear, and made him turn to her sharply.
"You are getting yourself pretty well talked of, I can tell you."
"Talked of? What"—sternly—"do you mean?"
"Right well you know. They are talking about your attentions to that minx at the Villa—that Miss Nesbitt."
Darkham's eyes suddenly blazed.
"Who has dared to talk of Miss Nesbitt with disrespect?" asked he.
"Oh, law! You needn't make such a fuss about it, even if she is your dearie-o. But I can tell you this Darkham, that people are talking about you and her, all the same. And why shouldn't they? Why, you never take your eyes off her."
"Be silent, woman!" said he savagely, coarsely; now and again his own birth betrayed him. "Who are you that you should speak to me like that?"
"I am your wife, any way," said she.
"Ay. My wife!"