“I could take all you gave me.”
“All I gave you!” George's voice rose momentarily to a higher pitch. “You licked me four afternoons out of five. You were twice as strong as I—three times as strong. And now I'd be afraid to land on you with a sofa cushion; you'd crumple up like a last year's leaf. You'd die, you poor, miserable old man.”
“You needn't abuse me just because I've changed my mind,” the other protested, the hint of a whine in his voice.
His wife entered, and he looked appealingly to her; but the man at the window strode suddenly up to him and burst out—
“You don't know your own mind for two successive minutes! You haven't any mind, you spineless, crawling worm!”
“You can't make me angry.” Al smiled with cunning, and glanced triumphantly at his wife. “You can't make me angry,” he repeated, as though the idea were thoroughly gratifying to him. “I know your game. It's my stomach, I tell you. I can't help it. Before God, I can't! Isn't it my stomach, Mary?”
She glanced at George and spoke composedly, though she hid a trembling hand in a fold of her skirt.
“Isn't it time?” she asked softly.
Her husband turned upon her savagely. “I'm not going to go!” he cried. “That's just what I've been telling... him. And I tell you again, all of you, I'm not going. You can't bully me.”
“Why, Al, dear, you said—” she began.