“I think I’ll retire to my little downy,” Elsie murmured, drearily facetious.
“It’s only a quarter past nine.”
“Oh, well, we lead such a deliriously exciting life that I’d better get some rest, hadn’t I?” she said ironically. “Just to make up for all the late nights we have.”
At last her husband put down the paper and looked coldly at her through his pince-nez. “What is it you want, Elsie? I work hard all day at the office, and you have plenty of time and money for amusing yourself in the daytime—and a strange use you seem to make of them, judging by to-day’s performance. What more do you want?”
“I don’t know. We might go to the pictures sometimes, or to a play. I hate not having anything to do.”
“That’s the complaint of every woman who hasn’t got children.”
“I can’t help it,” said Elsie angrily.
He said nothing, but continued to fix his eyes upon her, with his most disagreeable expression.
“Good-night, Horace.”
“I shall come up to bed before you’re asleep,” he said meaningly.