“Oh!” said his lordship awfully. “So that’s it, is it? Not content with putting me to shame in public, you must needs discuss the matter with Gil! Upon my word, Hero, if that don’t beat all! I might have guessed how it would be! No doubt you asked him if he had an opera dancer too!”
“Yes, and he said — ”
“ What?” thundered the Viscount.
“He said he had not,” ended Hero simply.
The Viscount appeared to have some difficulty in getting his breath. “Hero!” he uttered at last. “Have you no sense of propriety?”
“Yes, I have!” replied Hero, her bosom swelling. “I have much more than you have, Sherry, for I do not have opera dancers, or get foxed, or — Oh, I wish you will go away! You are unkind, and unforgiving, and unreasonable, and I hate you!”
“I am obliged to you, ma’am!” said the Viscount, seeking refuge in sudden and awe-inspiring dignity. “I have not the least notion of inflicting my presence on you another instant, and I will wish you a very goodnight!”
On this grand valediction he stalked from the room, closing the door with unnecessary violence, and leaving his overwrought wife to the indulgence of a hearty bout of tears.
They met next morning at the breakfast table, both very conscious of the previous night’s quarrel. The Viscount bade Hero a punctilious good morning, and buried himself in the newspaper. Hero poured out the coffee, and slowly consumed a roll. After a slight pause, she cleared her throat of an unaccountable lump, and said: “Sherry?”
The Viscount lowered the paper. “Well?”