“Well, well! what is up again?” asked he, with curiosity.
She drew a letter written in a female hand from one of the drawers of the sewing-stand.
“Read this, villain!”
Hastily snatching the letter, he began to read.
“Hem,” growled he indifferently. “The drab complains of being neglected, of not getting any money from me. That should not be a cause of rage for you, I should think. The drab is brazen enough to write to you to reveal my weaknesses, all with the amicable intention of getting up a thundergust in our matrimonial heaven. Do learn sense, wife, and stop noticing my secret enjoyments.”
“Fie, villain. Fie upon you, shameless wretch!” cried she, trembling in every limb.
“Listen to me, wife! Above all things, let us not have a scene, an unnecessary row,” interrupted he. “You know how fruitless are your censures. Don’t pester me with your stale lectures on morals.”
“Nearly every month I get a letter of that sort written in the most disreputable purlieus of the town, and addressed to my husband. It is revolting! Am I to keep silent, shameless man—I, your wedded wife? Am I to be silent in presence of such infamous deeds?”
“Rather too pathetic, wife! Save your breath. Don’t grieve at the liberties which I take. Try and accustom yourself to pay as little attention to my conduct as I bestow upon yours. When years ago I entered the contract with you vulgarly denominated marriage, I did it with the understanding that I was uniting myself to a subject that was willing to share with me a life free from restraints; I mean, a life free from the odor of so-called hereditary moral considerations and of religious restrictions. Accustom yourself to this view of the matter, rise to my level, enjoy an emancipated existence.”
He spoke and left the room. In his office he read the letter over.