Harry snatched his arm from her, and fell into the nearest chair, flushing violently.
“Very well, ma’am; you call me a drunkard now! I shouldn’t have thought any woman would have the heart to make fun of a sick husband; but you don’t care for anything as long as you can laugh and scamper about the garden like a great tomboy with that infernal long-legged idiot William! You are enough to make any husband drink, just to forget you, you unfeeling little creature, you!”
“Come now, Harry, I don’t think you can say it was I drove you to drink; and I think you would have forgotten me pretty quickly even without that assistance,” said she, passing her hand soothingly down his arm and speaking in a caressing voice, the charm of which always told on him when she chose to use it. “You know very well that it will not require any more crimes on the part of your wicked wife, for instance, to induce you to undo all the progress you have made toward getting well during the last few days by sitting up to-night drinking with George and Wilfred.”
“And what do you care if I do?”
“It is no affair of mine, of course, and I shall not annoy you and bring down a storm upon my own head by interfering. To borrow your own words, it would make no difference if I did.”
“How do you know it wouldn’t? Don’t I always do what you wish?”
“I think the temptation to do what I don’t wish will be stronger now you will have pleasanter company than a faded wife.”
“Whoever called you ‘faded’? I never did—you know I never did! And you know I like your company. I never knew you so pleasant before.”
“Oh, you don’t think me pleasant always!”
“No; because you say such nasty things—things you never used to dare to say when I was well. Now I’m ill, you think you can say anything, because I’m not strong enough yet to think of anything just as cutting to say back. But I’ll pay you out when I get well again, clever as you are.” He spoke in a rather irritated tone, but not ill-humoredly; she was so smiling, so careless, that he was as much amused as annoyed by her.