"Helen! speak! tell her she lies!"
"I never reply to inuendoes, sir." The eyes were passionless as ever.
"She is gentleness and patience personified," said Josephine, "Ask whom she will accompany to the theatre to-night and pray her,—your faithful wife—to stay with you."
"The theatre!" he uttered. "Are you going, and with whom?"
"With Mr. and Miss Talbot;" and save that she fastened her gaze upon him, instead of her, she looked and spoke the same.
"The 'Miss,' is an adroit addenda," sneered Josephine.
Her father was silent. His selfishness was wounded. He was angered and mortified that his wife should consign him to the care of others and find enjoyment in gay recreations, while he lay crippled and racked; but he detected the spring of Josephine's interference, and pride cried loudly that her impertinent malice should be punished. A study of his wife's determined face settled the point. If they differed, the mischief-maker should not know it. "Hark you!" said he, with sudden composure. "I see your game, my lady, and you may as well throw up your cards. I am master in my house, and there is no law against turning you out of it. I thought I had taught you this already. I have a piece of advice, you will do well to bear in mind. Attend to your own business, and let your betters alone. Now, be off! and don't let me see you again until you can behave yourself."
"I obey you, sir. If you want my services, I trust you will send for me."
Mr. Read was awkwardly embarrassed, when left with his wife. Domineering and stubborn as he was, she awed him. Her haughty endurance of his foolish fondness gave him no lien upon her affections; and the sang-froid, she had preserved under Josephine's insolence, was a bad augury of the efficacy of reproaches. She consulted her watch, and informed him that it was the hour for his medicine; administered it, and shook up his pillow.
"Helen," said he, coaxingly, "are you in earnest about leaving me? What shall I do?"