But suppressed feeling finds vent in some form or other, and Beth showed temper now instead of showing grief. "I wish you would not open my letters," she said irritably. "All the freshness of them is gone for me when you open them without my permission and read them first. Besides, it is an insult to my correspondents. What they say to me is intended for me, and not for you."
"I have a perfect right to open your letters," he retorted.
"I should like to see the Scripture that gives you the right, and I should advise you to waive it if you do not wish me to assume the right to open yours. Your petty prying keeps me in a continual state of irritation. I shall be lowered to retaliate sooner or later. So stop it, please, once and for all."
"My petty prying, indeed!" he exclaimed. "Well, that is a nice thing to say to your husband! Why, even when I do open your letters, which is not often, I never read them without your permission."
"Indeed," said Beth, who had ceased to be stunned by falsehoods. "Then be good enough not even to open them in future."
Dan tried to express injury and indignation in a long, hard look; but Beth was reading another letter, and took no further notice of him.
He hung about a little watching her.
"Any news," he ventured at last, with an imperfect assumption of indifference.
"You know quite well what my news is," she answered bluntly, "and I am not going to discuss it with you. I wish you would leave me alone."
"Well, you're a nice pill!" said Dan, discomfited.