“Do you ever make up your mind on any subject under the sun?” she remarked, with a crude curl of her long lip.
“I never trouble my brain, dear, over trifles.”
“What a limp animal you are. Pah, there’s too much pepper in this stuff! Take it away, James. And you can go. Leave the crumbs; we’ll picnic over dessert.”
The man whisked the plates away, set wines and liqueurs on the table, and departed, closing the door gently. Ophelia pulled a dish of preserved fruit towards her and nibbled irritably.
“Look here, Gabriel,” she said.
Her husband began handling a pair of silver nut-crackers.
“Well, dear?”
“I wish you wouldn’t be so curt before the servants. They might think we’d been married ten years by your manners. You never seem to consider me. If I wish a thing you immediately contradict me. I suppose my very wishing it is enough to set your temper on edge. You never seem to think I need amusing.”
“My dear girl, I suppose I am dull at times.”
“Dull! You put it mildly.”