"I don't mean to give it to her," said Maxwell, doggedly. "I never did, for an instant. As for not telling you that Grayson had suggested it—well, perhaps I wished to spare myself a scene like the present."
"Do you think I will believe you?"
"I don't think you will insult me. Why shouldn't you believe I am telling you the truth?"
"Because—because you didn't tell me at once."
"That is nonsense, and you know it. If I wanted to keep this from you, it was to spare you the annoyance I can't help now, and because the thing was settled in my mind as soon as Grayson proposed it."
"Then, why has he written to you about it?"
"I suppose I didn't say it was settled."
"Suppose? Don't you know whether you did?"
"Come, now, Louise! I am not on the witness-stand, and I won't be cross-questioned. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. What is the matter with you? Am I to blame because a man who doesn't imagine your dislike of a woman that you never spoke to suggests her taking part in a play that she probably wouldn't look at? You're preposterous! Try to have a little common-sense!" These appeals seemed to have a certain effect with his wife; she looked daunted; but Maxwell had the misfortune to add, "One would think you were jealous of the woman."
"Now you are insulting me!" she cried. "But it's a part of the vulgarity of the whole business. Actors, authors, managers, you're all alike."