"But my dear—"
"Peace! I will not be interrupted. If I am tyrannized over in every other way, I will at least claim the right to speak—I wish to say that this old plague shall not remain here another day to torment my life with his nonsense. This time, however, I made him feel the weight of my hand. His face was as red as my dress after it."
"You struck my faithful old Isidor?" cried the count, shocked.
"Yes, I did," replied she, looking defiantly into her uncle's mild face. "I beat him well, and then I threw the whole waiter of cups and glasses upon the floor. Have you any fault to find with that, my sympathizing uncle?"
"None, none," said the old man. "If it gave you pleasure to break the glasses, we will go out and buy others."
"WE! No, indeed, we shall not. Isidor shall pay for them from his wages. It was his fault that I was obliged to break them, and no one shall suffer for it except himself. I claim that as an act of bare justice to myself. "
"But, my dear countess—"
She stamped her foot again. "Great God! have you no object in life except that of contradicting and ill-treating me?"
The count sighed and approached the door. She heard him, and an exulting smile lit up her beautiful, stormy face.
"Well, as you will not tell him, I shall do it myself. Yes—I shall do it myself. Do you hear, uncle? You shall not say a word to him."