'I am deceived!' she said tragically, and she crackled with virtuous indignation.
Her first impulse was to knock furiously at the door and force her way in to bear her James away from the clutches of the big-boned siren. But she feared that her rival would meet her with brute force, and the possibility of defeat made her see the unladylikeness of the proceeding. So she turned on her heel, holding up her skirts and her nose against the moral contamination and made her way out of the low place. She walked tempestuously down to Fleet Street, jumped fiercely on a 'bus, frantically caught the train to Camberwell, and, having reached her house in the Adonis Road, flung herself furiously down on a chair and gasped,—
'Oh!'
Then she got ready for her husband's return.
'Well?' she said, when he came in; and she looked daggers.... 'Well?'
'I'm afraid I'm later than usual, my dear.' It was, in fact, past nine o'clock.
'Don't talk to me!' she replied, with a vigorous jerk of her head. 'I know what you've been up to.'
'What do you mean, my love?' he gently asked.
She positively snorted with indignation; she had rolled her handkerchief into a ball, and nervously dabbed the palms of her hands with it. 'I followed you this afternoon, and I saw you go into that 'ouse with that low woman. What now? Eh?' She spoke with the greatest possible emphasis.
'Woman!' said Mr Clinton, with a smile, 'What are you to me?'