“What?”
“We are having it in the inn to-day because of the wet. It is so nice, Otto. Table-napkins and everything. And flowers in the middle. And nothing to wash up afterward. What a pity you can’t be there! Are you better?”
“Better?” I repeated, with a note of justified wrath in my voice, for the thought of the others all enjoying themselves, sitting at a good meal on proper chairs in a room out of the reach of fresh air, naturally upset me. Why had they not told me? Why, in the name of all that was dutiful, had she not told me?
“I thought you were asleep,” said she when I inquired what grounds she had for the omission.
“So I was, but that——”
“And I know you don’t like being disturbed when you are,” said she, lamely as I considered, for naturally it depends on what one is disturbed for—of course I would have got up if I had known.
“I will not drink such stuff,” I said, pushing the cup away. “Why should I live on tepid water and butterless toast?”
“But—didn’t you say you were ill?” she asked, pretending to be surprised. “I thought when one is ill——”
“Kindly draw those curtains,” I said, for the crowd was straining every nerve to see and hear, “and remove this stuff. You had better,” I added, when the faces had been shut out, “return to your own breakfast. Do not trouble about me. Leave me here to be ill or not. It does not matter. You are my wife, and bound by law to love me, but I will make no demands on you. Leave me here alone, and return to your breakfast.”
“But, Otto, I couldn’t stay in here with you before. The poor horse would never——”