“Oh! The usual thing,” she snapped. “My husband has scolded me. You know his ungentlemanly ways. Always rude and offensive.”
“What was the trouble this time?”
“Merely the fact that I had excused my lateness at table by pleading unfinished letters, while he had urged a headache. I am tired of his eternal fault-finding.”
“That is valid reason for a divorce, my bewitching lady,” smiled Borgert. “Look for another husband if you are tired of the present one.”
She peered into his face inquiringly. “You don’t imagine how serious I am.”
“Ah, if that’s the case, my dear lady, there is no time like the present for planning a change. How, for instance, would I do for a substitute? Now, honor bright?” and he playfully fondled her plump little hand.
She took this just as smilingly. “Before I answer,” she said, coquettishly lowering her eyelids, “I must know what you have to offer me.”
“Let us sit down then and discuss this most alluring topic in its various bearings,” laughingly remarked he; and he led her to a divan, where they sat down side by side.
“Now, then, pay close attention, please,” continued he. “I offer you an elegant home, a neat turnout, a tolerably groomed nag, a villa on Lake Zurich, and a host of serving genii.”
“And who is to pay for it all?”