"Worthy!" she cried. "What man is worthy of a woman, when he cheats her as you have cheated me! You are a fool, with your talk of loathing yourself if you left the country! In God's name, what could there be in that to make you loathe yourself? What claim has the country on you, equal to the claim your wife has? Better loathe yourself for your false treatment of her! You'd loathe yourself, indeed! Well, then, I tell you this, 'tis I that will loathe you, if you stay! I shall abominate you, I shall not let you come into my sight! Now, sir, take your choice, this instant. Keep your promise with me—"
"'Twas not exactly a promise, my dear."
"I say, keep it, and take me to London, and keep my love and respect; or break your promise, and my heart, and take my hate and contempt. Choose, I say! Which? This instant! Speak!"
"Madge, dear, you are not yourself—"
"Oh, but I am, though! More myself than ever! And my own mistress, too! Speak, I bid you! Tell me we shall go. Answer—will you do as your wife wishes?"
"I will do as your husband ought."
"Will you go to England?"
"I will stay till I know the fate of the colonies; and to fight for them if need be."
"You give me up, for the sake of a whim, of some silly fustian about patriotism, some fool's rubbish of high-sounding words! Me , you balance against a crazy notion! Very well, sir! How I shall hate you for it! Don't come near me—not a step! Cling to your notion; see if it will fill my place! From this moment, you're not my husband, I'm not your wife—unless you promise we shall sail in June! And don't dare speak to me, except to tell me that!"
Whereupon, paying no heed to his reproachful cry of "Madge," she swept past him, and across the parlour, and up the hall staircase to her room; leaving us all in the amazement which had held us motionless and silent throughout the scene.