“Ah! you!” cried the tenor. “Cat! Devil! It ees you zat have killed me!” And moved by an access of blind rage, he extended his arm, and thrust his wife violently from him.
Louise rose to her feet, with a hard, set, good old New England look on her face. She lifted the tub of water to the level of her breast, and then she inverted it on the tenor’s head. For one instant she gazed at the deluge, and at the bath-tub balanced on the maestro’s skull like a helmet several sizes too large—then she fled like the wind.
Once in the servants’ quarters, she snatched her hat and jacket. From below came mad yells of rage.
“I kill hare! give me my knife—give me my rivvolvare! Au secours! Assassin!”
Miss Slattery appeared in the doorway, still polishing her nails.
“What have you done to His Tonsils?” she inquired. “He’s pretty hot, this trip.”
“How can I get away from here?” cried Louise.
Miss Slattery pointed to a small door. Louise rushed down a long stairway—another—and yet others—through a great room where there was a smell of cooking and a noise of fires—past white-capped cooks and scullions—through a long stone corridor, and out into the street. She cried aloud as she saw Esther’s face at the window of the coupé.
She drove home—cured.
| Owing to the Sudden Indisposition of M. Rémy, There will be no Concert This Evening. Money Refunded at the Box Office. |