“Wife!” she cried in a tone of disgust. “Why not call me by my proper name? I was your slave, Captain Willoughby. You used me to decoy young men to your house so that you might fleece them at cards, and when I refused any longer to participate in your schemes you used brute force towards me. See!” she continued, unbuttoning the sleeve of her bodice, and exposing her bare arm—“see, I still bear a mark of your ill-treatment.”
He smiled at her indignation.
“It’s very pleasant to talk in this strain, no doubt,” he observed, “but you have apparently overlooked one rather disagreeable fact—that when leaving Cannes, you took twenty thousand francs belonging to me.”
“And what if I did, pray? I left you because of your cruelty, and I’ve not since applied to you for maintenance, nor even sought a divorce.”
“That’s true. But now you’ve had your fling, perhaps you won’t object to return to your lawful husband.”
“You must be an imbecile to think that I would.”
“What! You will not?” he cried angrily.
“No, never. I hate and loathe you.”
“That makes but little difference,” said he coolly. “Nevertheless, as a wife would be of assistance to me just now, I mean that you shall return to me.”
“But I tell you I will never do so,” she declared emphatically.