"Because," she answered, "he is one of those animals who like to make husbands jealous."
Lawrence turned towards his wife with a restrained ferocity.
"And you would let him?" he asked, speaking in a whisper lest he should speak too loud.
Prudence threw back her head and laughed; the merry sound made people near turn and look at her.
"Good heavens!" muttered Lawrence under his breath, "what a thing it is to be a woman!"
"Not half so much of a thing as it is to be a man. A man is a miracle of suspicion and trust, of belief and incredulity. Don't you believe me, you angry old Rodney?" she asked, with another touch on his arm, and a swift, sweet modulation of voice.
"Yes," he answered, grimly; "I believe everything you tell me."
"Oh, no, you mustn't do that, for soon you'll be blaming me for deceiving you. But we're getting off the subject,—Mr. Meramble. He likes to make you jealous. It is kind of exciting, you know, to suspect that some one is behind a door, or somewhere, fuming and biting his nails down to the quick; you've noticed that jealous people always bite their nails to the quick, haven't you?"
"I can't say I have."
"Well, they do; I suppose they enjoy it. Now about Mr. Meramble; have you anything special against him, Rodney dear?"