"D—— your catlap?" says Mr. Thorndyke, with a scowl of disgust. "I say, Nellie, do stop that infernal scribble, scrabble, and send out for oysters. I haven't eaten a mouthful to-day—I had such a splitting headache this morning, and I haven't a sou left."
"And how many sous do you suppose I have left?" the wife demands with flashing eyes. "I paid the landlord the rent to-day, and I have to buy coal to-morrow. Oysters!" she laughs, scornfully. "I have forgotten what they are. As to your headache—probably if you had drank less whiskey last night, you would not have suffered so severely this morning. What there is in the house you are welcome to. I shall send for nothing."
The lips tighten still more—she goes resolutely on with her writing.
Mr. Thorndyke relieves his mind by an oath and a growl, as he flings himself heavily upon a lounge. His wife writes on and pays no attention. She has grown accustomed to be sworn at—it hardly affects her now.
He lies and watches her with gloomy eyes. Those three years have changed him deepening the reckless, dissipated look worn and aged him strangely. Handsome he is still, but haggard, the brilliant eyes dimmed and bloodshot, the hand tremulous, an habitual scowl on his brow.
"What does Gilbert pay you for that bosh?" he asked.
"About three times as much as he would pay any one else. You see he knew my father, and doesn't care to look on and see my father's daughter starve. Be kind enough not to talk to me, Mr. Thorndyke—I don't wish to make mistakes."
"Day has been when you liked to have me talk to you well enough," retorts, Mr. Thorndyke, with another sullen oath.
"Yes, I was a fool—no need to remind me of it. No one can regret it more than I do. Happily that day is past. You have cured me signally of my folly."
There is a pause. Mrs. Thorndyke immovably writes. Mr. Thorndyke lies sullenly and looks on. At last—