“'Tis false, sir! I love my wife—alas, I should say that I love her better than a score of Mrs. Abingtons,” cried Lewis.
“Ah, husband, dear husband,” began his wife, when Mrs. Abington interrupted her.
“Hush, child,” she cried. “Let me ask him if he never implored that woman, Abington, to accompany him to Vauxhall while he told you he was going to the playhouse? Let me ask him how often he has whiled away the hours in Mrs. Abington's house, assuring his wife that he was detained at the play-house. He is silent, you perceive. That means that he has still a remnant of what once was a conscience. Mr. Lewis, were it light enough to see you, I am sure that we should find that you were hanging your head. What! are you surprised that any one should admire the wife whom you neglected? You are enraged because you saw me by her side at the Gardens. You have played the spy on us, sir, and in doing so you have played the fool, and you will acknowledge it and ask your wife's pardon and mine before five minutes have passed. Call for a light, sir; we do not expect you to apologise in the dark.”
“The fellow's impudence astounds me,” muttered Lewis. He then threw open the door and shouted down the stairs for a light.
Mrs. Lewis, while the light was being brought, made another attempt to explain matters, but Mrs. Abington commanded her to be silent.
“Everything will be explained when the light comes,” said she.
“Yes,” said the man, grimly, “for men cannot cross swords in the dark.”
“There will be no crossing swords here,” said Mrs. Abington.
“Coward—Scoundrel! Now we shall see what you are made of,” said the man, as a servant appeared on the landing with a lighted lamp.
“Yes; that's just what you will see,” said Mrs. Abington in her natural voice, as the light flooded the room.