"Come, come!" I exclaimed. "What's the sense in keeping up the farce?"
"What farce, Armand, dear?"
"That I am your husband," I answered curtly. Her 'dears' and her 'Armands' were getting on my nerves.
Her face took on an injured look.
"Judging from your action, the other night and now, it would be well for me if it were a farce," she said sadly.
I walked over to the table, on the far side of which she sat.
"Is it possible, madame, that, here, alone with me, you still have the effrontery to maintain you are my wife?"
She put her elbows on the table and, resting her chin in her hands, looked me straight in the eyes.
"And do you, sir, here, alone with me, still have the effrontery to maintain that I am not your wife?" she asked.
"It's not necessary," said I, "for you know it quite as well as I do."