“Oh, I do. I’ll write the excuses for you, if you like.”
She stamped her foot. “Mortimer—I will not be put to shame before my friends! You have no right to do this to me! Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do, tied to a perfect beast like you for the rest of my life?”
“Grin and bear it, I suppose. You won’t make me any better by swearing at me!”
“I don’t swear at you! How you speak to me! To me! to me! Your wife! How dared you marry me, Mortimer?”
“I don’t know about dare,” he said, growing red. “When all is said and done, I don’t think you did much to prevent me!”
“That’s enough!” she raised her hand with a theatrical gesture as if to stop him, and, sinking into an armchair, hid her face in her hands. “Insulting! No—I see now—you never loved me! Never! Never!”
He ostentatiously turned his back on her tragic pose.
“There you go! Always in extremes—always injured—always making the worst of it! You couldn’t live without a grievance, I do believe! Of course I married you for love—if you must use the absurd word—and now you pay me back by plaguing my life out! And then begin to talk damned sentimental rot about my never having loved you, and so on! Now, really, don’t you think we are both a bit too old for that sort of thing?”
“Oh, you are—impossible!” she moaned. It was what she felt. It was the one word which fitted the situation, which was no situation, except to herself. Mortimer kicked a coal out of the grate savagely with his carpet-slippered foot, and, her sense assaulted by the sickening smell of singed wool, she left the room.
. . . . . . . .