The lady laid her head back on the chair, and laughed with exquisite enjoyment.
“Really, my dear John, you will kill me,” she said at length.
“May I ask,” he replied, looking as though there was nothing in the world that he would like better, “what you are laughing at?”
“Your slightly vulgar but happy simile; it is easy to see where you draw your inspiration from. If you had only said butterine, inferior butter, you know, the counterfeit article, it would have been perfect.”
Her husband gave a glance at his tubby little figure in the glass.
“Am I to understand that you refer to me as ‘butterine,’ Mrs. Bellamy?”
“Oh! certainly yes, if you like; but, butter or not, you will melt if you lose your temper so.”
“I have not lost my temper, madam; I am perfectly cool,” he replied, positively gasping with fury. Here his eye fell upon the necklace. “What necklace is that? who gave you that necklace? I demand to know.”
“You demand to know! Be careful what you say, please. Mr. George Caresfoot gave me the necklace. It cost a thousand pounds. Are you satisfied?”
“No, I am not satisfied; I will not have that cursed George Caresfoot continually here. I will send him back his necklace. I will assert my rights as an Englishman and a spouse, I will——”