“Sweets to the sweet,” he said, gallantly, as he handed it back.
Miss Robinson pouted, and, raising the cup to her lips, gazed ardently at him over the rim. Mr. Jobling, who certainly felt not more than twenty-two that evening, stole her cake and received in return a rap from a teaspoon. Mr. Jobling retaliated, and Mrs. Jobling, unable to eat, sat looking on in helpless fury at little arts of fascination which she had discarded—at Mr. Jobling's earnest request—soon after their marriage.
By dint of considerable self-control, aided by an occasional glance from her husband, she managed to preserve her calm until he returned from accompaning the visitor to her tram. Then her pent-up feelings found vent. Quietly scornful at first, she soon waxed hysterical over his age and figure. Tears followed as she bade him remember what a good wife she had been to him, loudly claiming that any other woman would have poisoned him long ago. Speedily finding that tears were of no avail, and that Mr. Jobling seemed to regard them rather as a tribute to his worth than otherwise, she gave way to fury, and, in a fine, but unpunctuated passage, told him her exact opinion of Miss Robinson.
“It's no good carrying on like that,” said Mr. Jobling, magisterially, “and, what's more, I won't have it.”
“Walking into my house and making eyes at my 'usband,” stormed his wife.
“So long as I don't make eyes at her there's no harm done,” retorted Mr. Jobling. “I can't help her taking a fancy to me, poor thing.”
“I'd poor thing her,” said his wife.
“She's to be pitied,” said Mr. Jobling, sternly. “I know how she feels. She can't help herself, but she'll get oyer it in time. I don't suppose she thinks for a moment we have noticed her—her—her liking for me, and I'm not going to have her feelings hurt.”
“What about my feelings?” demanded his wife.
“You have got me,” Mr. Jobling reminded her.