"This is a nice way to meet me, ain't it? And you call yourself a man!" was his greeting.
"Woman, I defy you!" he challenged, "In the name of my ancestor, Charles Martel, King of France!"
"Go on, you drunken fool! You ain't no more French than what I am, except for your name, which is a fake, same as my stage name."
I edged toward the door, having stealthily secured my hat.
"You stay right where you are, Teddy dearie," the virago commanded. "John and me ain't got no secrets what can't be shouted from the house-tops, and he knows it. You stay and see justice done a poor old woman."
I apologetically referred to an engagement. It was no use.
"I want a witness to my treatment—I'm his legally, lawfully wedded wife, and he deserts me—and sends me no money—and gets drunk to my face. If there's justice on this earth, I'll have the law on him."
"Woman, you lie!" thundered John. "You're not my wife and never was. I'm sick and tired of you," he hiccupped. "You've ruined my life," and he sat heavily in a chair, being now in the maudlin stage. Yet his dramatic instinct did not desert him. He was a fine picture of despair as he sat there.
"Will you listen to him denying his own kith and kin," she shrieked.
"Insult me before my friend—go on, woman," moaned Prospero. "Poison the mind of youth against me."