"Yours, Barnabas? I never said so."
"Because I loved you—worshipped you, and because—"
"Because you were—jealous, Barnabas!"
"Because I would have my wife immaculate—"
"But I am not your—wife."
"No," said Barnabas, frowning, "she must be immaculate."
Now when he said this he heard her draw a long, quivering sigh, and with the sigh she rose to her feet and faced him, and her eyes were wide and very bright, and the fan she held snapped suddenly across in her white fingers.
"Sir," she said, very softly, "I whipped you once, if I had a whip now, your cheek should burn again."
"But I should not ask you to kiss it,—this time!" said Barnabas.
"Yes," she said, in the same soft voice, "I despise you—for a creeping spy, a fool, a coward—a maligner of women. Oh, go away,—pray go. Leave me, lest I stifle."