"Well, what difference does that make to me?"
"Stupid! You can go to see her.—You won't go? Why, that's what I came expressly to tell you! Of course you'll go; I want you to. I'm sorry for you. After all, you are her husband."
"I'm not. I'm not any one's husband," he said, with a shrug. "I thought you would have something very different to tell me. Now—what shall I get you? Beans—milk—bacon—cheese?"
"If you're not any one's husband, then marry me," she said, in a low, unsteady voice, like a person who has been drinking.
Costantino coughed, and spat on the ground.
Instantly a gleam of intelligence shot into her usually dull, expressionless eyes.
"Why do you do that?" she asked sharply. "You think, perhaps, that she is better than I?"
He flushed, and then a heartsick feeling came over him.
"Yes," he said; "you are worse, or—better than she."