“All right,” said Beverly. “Anything you say. What’s that you’re reading now?”
“Heine’s prose. He is wonderful—such a style and such sardonic wit, and such exquisite thoughts. I’ll begin all over again. Now light a cigar and make yourself comfortable.”
For a half hour she read aloud, and then Mr. Peele remarked,—
“Hang it! The skating is spoiled for a week.”
“Oh, Beverly, you haven’t been listening.”
“Well, I don’t like it very much. He skips around so. Besides, I always did hate Germans. Give me America every time.”
“Well, read something American then,” said Patience, crossly.
“You find something and read it to me. I like to hear your voice, even if I can’t keep my mind on it. Wait a while though. I guess I’ll go and see how the stable is getting on.”
He bent down to kiss his wife, but she was once more absorbed, and did not see him. He snatched the book from her with an oath and flung it across the room. She sprang to her feet with flashing eyes, pushed him aside with no gentle hand, and ran after the book.
“You sha’n’t read that book!” he cried. “The idea of forgetting your husband for a book—a book! You are a lovely wife! You are a disgrace to the name! You would rather read than kiss your husband! I’ll lock this room up, damned if I don’t.”