"That's just it," she remarked in a tone of finality. "That finishes it!"
"Finishes what?"
"Our engagement," she said firmly. "The combination of temper and dressing gown."
"But with all due modesty you must have expected to see him in a dressing gown after you were married," I protested as delicately as I could.
"And he not only looks like the devil in it but stands there and tells me to sit quiet until he comes back, just as though I wasn't a better shot than he is! Ugh—that dressing gown!"
"Well, what did you expect?" I asked helplessly.
"Sandro is dressed," she retorted with apparent irrelevance.
"Don't call him that!" I exclaimed, fairly exasperated with the girl. "You have absolutely no proof that it's Sandro."
"I'll get proof," she said. "You wait—I'll get proof."
"Nonsense!" I said. "Hush up! Here he comes."