"My husband," exclaimed she, in a soft, sweet tone, "put down your book; sit upon this sofa; I want to speak with you."
I rose, a little petulantly, and did as she desired. She threw her arms around my neck, and kissed me tenderly.
"I have something to ask of you," she said,—"something to request."
"What is it?" I exclaimed,—almost sharply.
"It is that you would not invite Alphonse to come here any more,—that you would never speak of my going out with him again, but encourage his leaving here,—and that you would give me more of your society."
"Pray, what does all this mean, Eudora?" I demanded. "Alphonse and you have been quarrelling, I suppose."
"No, my husband."
"Then, what do you mean by such nonsense?" I asked, in an irritated tone.
"I scarcely have courage to tell you," she cried,—"for I fear it will make us both forever miserable."
Thoroughly aroused by this astounding avowal, I repeated, in a stern tone and without one touch of sympathy, my demand for an explanation. She knelt lovingly at my feet,—not in a posture submissive or humiliating, but as if thus she could get nearer my heart,—and began, calmly:—