“Don't! Shan't I be drunk in my own house, you cursed whimpering jade, you? Get out!” and with this the Captain proceeded to administer a blow upon Mrs. Catherine's cheek.
Contrary to her custom, she did not avenge it, or seek to do so, as on the many former occasions when disputes of this nature had arisen between the Count and her; but now Mrs. Catherine fell on her knees and, clasping her hands and looking pitifully in the Count's face, cried, “Oh, Count, forgive me, forgive me!”
“Forgive you! What for? Because I slapped your face? Ha, ha! I'll forgive you again, if you don't mind.”
“Oh, no, no, no!” said she, wringing her hands. “It isn't that. Max, dear Max, will you forgive me? It isn't the blow—I don't mind that; it's—”
“It's what, you—maudlin fool?”
“IT'S THE PUNCH!”
The Count, who was more than half seas over, here assumed an air of much tipsy gravity. “The punch! No, I never will forgive you that last glass of punch. Of all the foul, beastly drinks I ever tasted, that was the worst. No, I never will forgive you that punch.”
“Oh, it isn't that, it isn't that!” said she.
“I tell you it is that,—you! That punch, I say that punch was no better than paw—aw-oison.” And here the Count's head sank back, and he fell to snore.
“IT WAS POISON!” said she.