"You are quite as good an actress as I supposed," remarked her husband, with satisfaction.
She pondered this for a minute. Then: "You mean that I kept up appearances before the servants? That is second nature with me, I think—hardly acting. But I thought I was doing what you would wish?"
He placed his hands upon the table edge, pushing his chair back slightly on its hind legs, while he looked up at her. Again he had the air of one who grimly jests.
"Excellent! A wife who actually foresees her husband's wishes, and acts accordingly! Yes, I suppose it is best that it should be so. Pray continue to enliven my meals with your pretty prattle."
The colour sprang to her face at the gibe. "Perhaps you will give me more efficient support next time," she said quickly, speaking before reflecting.
He laughed as though he had scored a point. "I think I warned you against answering back," he softly reminded her.
She looked him full in the eyes—a look which apparently infuriated him. With a sudden forward movement he caught her by the waist, dragging her down upon his knee. "Here, drink to our good health and future happiness!" he cried, pushing the glass of wine towards her.
The unlooked-for assault made her so faint that she knew the wine would do her good, help her to maintain her self-command in this ghastly situation. She sat where he placed her, took the glass from his hand with both hers, and lifted it to her lips. "I drink to your good health," she said with dignity.
He gave a wrathful exclamation, snatched the glass from her, so that the remainder of the wine was shot over the carpet, and said: "Little hypocrite! You would sooner drink to my death!"
"Oh, no," said she, "I desire your health. You are a very sick man just now, in mind if not in body."