Patience flushed angrily, but made no reply. She had learned that even a slight dispute would move her husband to a violent outbreak.
“She looked more to the manor born than half the guests,” said Hal, “and if you took her out next winter she’d become the rage—”
“I don’t wish my wife to be the rage! And she is going to stay here. If she loves me as much as I love her she’ll be as contented with my society as I am with hers.”
“As if any woman ever loved a man as much as he loved her,” remarked Miss Peele. “I am sure Patience is no such idiot.”
“What?” cried Beverly. Patience rose hastily.
“I think I’ll go and brush my hair,” she said, moving to the door; but he sprang to his feet and stood in front of her.
“Tell me!” he cried, his voice shaking. “Don’t you love me as much as I love you?”
“Oh, Beverly,” she said, impatiently, “how can you get into such tempers about nothing? You have asked me if I loved you about nine thousand times since we were married. How am I to know how much you love me? Have you a plummet and line about you?”
“You are dodging the question. And you have never asked me if I loved you—not once—”
Patience slipped past him and ran down the hall to her room. Before she could close the door he was beside her. He caught her in his arms and kissed her violently.