“You said—”
“I will.”
“Indeed.” (Here she tenderly approached him, and stroked his friendly old grey head.) “Dear husband; now forget those horrid words ‘I will,’ or at least leave them with me, with me alone, for the wife should be obeyed.”
“But—but!”
“But us no buts, dear man. Be still, I say. What, are you one of those men who will not be led by kindness? what, would you dare!”
Here there was a dull rap distinctly heard, it was a knock on the don’s expostulating knuckles.
“Am I awake?” asked the don of himself. “What has happened? blows I think! Pray what shall come next?”
In fact, the don looked as though petrified—dreaming—struck by lightning, as though he were anybody but himself.
“Courage, don, courage,” said the doctor.
“Courage, oh dear,” said Don Pasquale, the married man sinking lower and lower in his chair.