“What!” cried Syd, furiously, “strike my wife?”
“He didn’t, Syd dear; but I thought he would.”
“An old wretch! I’d kill him!”
“No, you wouldn’t, Syd dear,” said the girl, kittening up to him and rubbing her cheek up against his; “but it’s so nice of you to say so, and it makes me feel that you do love your little wifey ever so much.”
“Of course I do, soft, beautiful little owlet.”
“Then had I better stay?”
“What! Here?”
“Yes; I’m sure Lady Lisle’ll like me when she sees me. I’ll stop, and we’ll go down on our knees together, like they do at the Orphoean, and say: ‘Forgive us, mother—I mean, aunt dear—and it’ll be all right.’ ‘Bless you, my children.’ You know, Syd.”
“Look here, don’t put me in a passion again, or I shall be saying nastier things than ever.”
“But why, dear? What for? I am your little wife, you know.”