“If you wanted to keep me out, you ought to have barricaded yourself up with the furniture.”
Bertha was disinclined to treat the matter lightly. “If you come in,” she said, “I shall go out.”
“Oh no, you won’t!” he said, dragging a big chest of drawers in front of the door.
Bertha got up and put on a yellow silk dressing-gown, which was really most becoming.
“I’ll spend the night on the sofa then,” she said. “I don’t want to quarrel with you any more or to make a scene. I have written to Aunt Polly, and the day after to-morrow I shall go to London.”
“I was going to suggest that a change of air would do you good. I think your nerves are a bit groggy.”
“It’s very good of you to take an interest in my nerves,” she replied, with a scornful glance, settling herself on the sofa.
“Are you really going to sleep there?” he said, getting into bed.
“It looks like it.”
“You’ll find it awfully cold. But I dare say you’ll think better of it in an hour. I’m going to turn the light out. Good-night!”