“Sit down!”
Mr. Gallilee sat down.
“Have you been to the club?”
Mr. Gallilee got up again.
“Sit down!”
Mr. Gallilee sat down. “I was about to say, my dear, that I’ll show you over the club with the greatest pleasure—if that’s what you mean.”
“If you are not a downright idiot,” said Mrs. Gallilee, “understand this! Either say what you have to say, or—” she lifted her hand, and let it down on the writing-table with a slap that made the pens ring in the inkstand—“or, leave the room!”
Mr. Gallilee lifted his hand, and searched in the breast-pocket of his coat. He pulled out his cigar-case, and put it back in a hurry. He tried again, and produced a letter. He looked piteously round the room, in sore need of somebody whom he might appeal to, and ended in appealing to himself. “What sort of temper will she be in?” he whispered.
“What have you got there?” Mrs. Gallilee asked sharply. “One of the letters you had this morning?”
Mr. Gallilee looked at her with admiration. “Wonderful woman!” he said. “Nothing escapes her! Allow me, my dear.”