Trampy seemed in a jovial mood, with his cigar in his mouth, his cheeks flushed with insolence, his eyes moist with libations.
“Let’s make peace,” said Trampy. “Peace in the home: that’s my motto!”
“Divorce!” cried Lily.
“Peace in the home for me!” rejoined Trampy, who grew the more radiant as Lily grew more and more incensed.
“Let me tell you,” he continued, puffing luxuriously at his cigar, “that divorce—why, how can you think of it?—means a public scandal, my name dragged in the mud....”
“Footy rotter!” roared Lily.
“Dragged in the mud; and my dear little wife left to her own resources, marrying again, as she feels inclined, marrying some one unworthy of her, perhaps. I won’t have it! I’m responsible for you! I’m your natural protector! You’re not Miss Lily, you’re Mrs. Trampy. You’ve been in the wrong, certainly; you had me turned off the stage, me, your husband; but I forgive you.”
“And I ... take that!” Lily broke in, spitting in his face. “That’s how I forgive you! Take that! And that!”
Trampy reveled with delight:
“You are my dear little wifie, aren’t you? And you’ll remain so ... and you’ll never belong to any one else, do you hear? I am a faithful husband. You’re trying for a divorce, I know, but you won’t get it. The wrong is on your side and I’m not going to law, and you’re Mrs. Trampy and Mrs. Trampy you’ll remain! Will you come and have a drink, Mrs. Trampy?” he continued, lighting a fresh cigar. “Won’t you? Very well. Good night, wifie!”