“He has gone to get a glass of ale, Mary,” I said cheerfully. “Let’s see if we can see him.”
“No,” she said huskily; “he has gone: he has left me for good, Master Antony, and I’m a miserable, wretched woman.”
“Oh, nonsense,” I cried. “Come along. We shall find him.”
“No,” she said, in a decisive way; “he has gone. He’s been regretting it ever since this morning.”
“Don’t, pray; don’t cry, Mary,” I whispered in alarm, for I was afraid of a scene in the streets.
“No, my dear; don’t you be afraid of that,” she said, with a sigh. “I’ll try and bear it till we get home; but I won’t promise for any longer.”
“Don’t you be foolish, Mary,” I said sharply. “He has not left you. He’s too fond of you. Let’s see if he is in the bar.”
Mary sighed; but she allowed herself to be led where I pleased, and for the next half-hour we stood peering about in every likely place for the truant husband, but in vain; and at last, feeling that it was useless to search longer, I reluctantly turned to poor, patient, silent Mary, wondering greatly that she had not burst out into a “tantrum,” and said that we had better go home.
“Go where?” she said dolefully.
“Home,” I replied, “to your lodgings.”