"What the deuce are you talking about?" he demanded, sharply.
The slumberous eyes surveyed her listlessly over the couch.
"My speech is blunt, sir; I learned it from you, and I have an inconvenient practice of saying what I think. Old men, who have young and fashionable wives, should not indulge in the luxury of sickness. What woman, who has a right appreciation of her charms, can hesitate what course to pursue, when a decrepid husband is put in one scale—society and a score of beaux in the other?"
His glare of impotent fury was demoniacal—he was too weak to control it. The liquid eyes were dreamy and motionless still. The irascible old man jerked his head so that he could see her face—"Helen! what is that girl driving at?"
"She can best explain herself, sir."
"Speak!" he commanded, at the top of his tremulous voice.
"I hope you have made your will, sir;" said Josephine, deliberately.
"By my life, I will do it, and cut you off, without a copper, if you parley much more?"
"You virtually severed our connection two months ago, sir. A stranger has supplanted me in your heart and house; and up to this time, I have held my peace. This is my revenge. Your idol, having used you for her pleasure and advancement, does not mean that this sickness, caused by your doating indulgence, shall fetter her dainty limbs. On the contrary, it frees her from the restraint of your observation,—the incumbrance of your attentions."
She dropped each word slowly, purposely to aggravate his impatience, which was now frightful. Manacled, bound down by the fiery bands of his malady, he writhed, as upon a Procrustean bed.