“Won’t you shake hands with your husband,” he asked, “when your husband asks you?”
She mechanically put her hand in his. He dropped it instantly, with a start. “God! how cold!” he exclaimed. His own hand was burning hot, and shook incessantly.
He pointed to a chair at the head of the table.
“Will you make the tea?” he asked.
She had given him her hand mechanically; she advanced a step mechanically—and then stopped.
“Would you prefer breakfasting by yourself?” he said.
“If you please,” she answered, faintly.
“Wait a minute. I have something to say before you go.”
She waited. He considered with himself; consulting his memory—visibly, unmistakably, consulting it before he spoke again.
“I have had the night to think in,” he said. “The night has made a new man of me. I beg your pardon for what I said yesterday. I was not myself yesterday. I talked nonsense yesterday. Please to forget it, and forgive it. I wish to turn over a new leaf and make amends—make amends for my past conduct. It shall be my endeavor to be a good husband. In the presence of Mrs. Dethridge, I request you to give me a chance. I won’t force your inclinations. We are married—what’s the use of regretting it? Stay here, as you said yesterday, on your own terms. I wish to make it up. In the presence of Mrs. Dethridge, I say I wish to make it up. I won’t detain you. I request you to think of it. Good-morning.”