“I think, madam, that it will avoid any further words of a disagreeable nature if we remain apart for the present.”
“Certainly, Wilford,” she cried, putting her hands out to me with an imploring gesture. “Go and rest, there’s a dear, and carry out Doctor Britten’s orders. You will soon be right again if you do. You’ve been puzzling your head too much over your figures, and the blow has affected you. Go and rest. But before you go I would ask you one favour.”
“Well?” I inquired in a hard voice.
She drew nearer to me, and with that detestable artificial coquetry lifted her face to mine that I might kiss her.
“No!” I cried roughly, for I was beside myself with anger. “Let me remain in peace. I don’t want to meet you again, my dear madam, until—until I know the worst.”
“What have I done, Wilford, that you should treat me thus?” she wailed bitterly, bursting into a torrent of tears. “Oh, what have I done? Tell me.”
“I don’t know what you’ve done, and I’m sure I’m not interested in it,” I responded. “All I know is that when you declare that you are my wife you tell a deliberate and downright lie.”
For a moment she stood in hesitation, then, with tears flowing fast, she covered her face with her hands and staggered from the room.
Was she only acting the broken-hearted wife, or was that emotion real? Which, I could not decide.
If all this were part of some conspiracy, it was certainly one of no ordinary character. But what a confounded old hag the woman was! I shuddered. Surely she could not be my wife! The suggestion was too utterly preposterous to be entertained for a single moment, and within myself I laughed her allegation to scorn.