"And may I ask why you begged that double-faced, white-livered friend of yours not to come to-morrow evening?" he asked, after some minutes.
"Vranic was never a friend of mine," said Milena, proudly.
"Admitting he wasn't, still you haven't answered my question; but I suppose it doesn't suit you to answer, does it?"
"Why not? I begged him not to come because I was afraid some mischief might ensue, withal you promised me not to be rash."
"I promised you, did I? Anyhow, I find that you take a great interest in this friend of mine, far more than it becomes an honest woman." Then, with a scowl and a sneer: "If you are honest."
Milena winced, and grew deathly pale. She did not give her husband any answer, so he, after grunting and grumbling and smoking for some time, got up and went to bed. She, however, remained where she was seated—or rather crouched—for she knew that she could not sleep.
How could she sleep?
First, she was not feeling well. The kick she had received in her side had produced a slight, dull, gnawing soreness; moreover, she felt—or at least she fancied she could feel—a gnawing pain; it was not much of a pain, only it seemed as if a watch were ticking there within her. She shuddered and felt sick, a cold sweat gathered on her brow, and she trembled from head to foot.
Some women in her state—she had heard—never got over the consequences of a blow; perhaps the kick might produce mortification, and then in a few days she would die. Yes, she felt as if she had received an inward incurable bruise. Well, after all, it was but right; she had deceived her husband; he had revenged himself. Now they were quits.
Still tears started to her eyes, and sobs rose to her throat.