“Because you are quite altered now,” continued she, in a querulous tone. “I always prophesied, that you would cease to love me.”
“Take care, my dear,” said he, smiling; “some prophecies are the cause of their own accomplishment,—the sole cause. Come, my Griselda,” continued he, in a serious tone, “do not let us begin to quarrel the moment we meet.” He offered to embrace her, but she drew back haughtily. “What! do you confess that you no longer love me?” cried she.
“Far from it: but it is in your own power,” said he, hesitating, “to diminish or increase my love.”
“Then it is no love, if it can be either increased or diminished,” cried she; “it is no love worth having. I remember the day when you swore to me, that your affection could not be increased or diminished.”
“I was in love in those days, my dear, and did not know what I swore,” said Mr. Bolingbroke, endeavouring to turn the conversation: “never reproach a man, when he is sober, with what he said when he was drunk.”
“Then you are sober now, are you?” cried she angrily.
“It is to be hoped I am,” said he, laughing.
“Cruel, barbarous man!” cried she.
“For being sober?” said he: “have not you been doing all you could to sober me these eighteen months, my dear? and now do not be angry if you have in some degree succeeded.”
“Succeeded!—Oh, wretched woman! this is thy lot!” exclaimed Griselda, clasping her hands in an agony of passion. “Oh, that my whole unfortunate sex could see me,—could hear you at this instant! Never, never did the love of man endure one twelvemonth after marriage. False, treacherous, callous, perjured tyrant! leave me! leave me!”