It is an oft-repeated experience. A handsome man, a beautiful woman, both equally heart-wicked, inspiring one another with a transient passion, that lasts long enough to make man and wife of them, but rarely outlives the honeymoon. Such was the story of the couple in question.
The stormy scene described was far from being the first. It was but one of the squalls almost daily occurring between them.
The calm succeeding such a violent gust could not be continuous. A cloud so dark could not be dissipated without a further discharge of electricity.
It came; the last speaker, as if least satisfied, resuming the discourse.
“And supposing you had married your lady—I know whom you mean—that old scratch, Lady C—, what a nice time the two of you would have had of it! She could only have kissed you at the risk of losing her front teeth, or swallowing them. Ha! ha! ha!”
“Lady C— be hanged! I could have had half a score of titled ladies; some of them as young, and just as good-looking, is you!”
“Boasting braggart! ’Tis false, and you know it! Good-looking as me! How you’ve changed your tune! You know I was called the ‘Belle of Brompton!’ Thank heaven, I don’t need you to satisfy me of my good looks. Men of ten times your taste have pronounced upon them; and may yet!”
The last speech was delivered in front of a cheval glass, before which the speaker had stopped, as if to admire her person.
Certainly the glass gave out an image that did not contradict what she had said.
“May yet!” echoed the satiated rake in a drawl, that betokened either indifference, or its assumption. “I wish some of them would!”