“You should not have done that,” he said, between his closed teeth. “Why did you not tell me about your Irish acquaintance? I would have given her a blanket,--a thing better suited to her condition in life than an expensive, fur-lined rug. And what will you do on chilly evenings?”
“I will take the blanket,” she said, menacingly. “Are you trying to scold me?”
“Yes,” he said, helplessly, “I am trying, but it is a dead failure. Whatever I may do in the future, now, at least, I could not utter a harsh word to you to save my life.”
“You never did scold me much,” she said, flatteringly. “You were only obstinate, and wouldn’t tell me things. You are better now, and I am sorry I was so thoughtless to-day.”
She was rambling about the room now in her usual restless fashion. The supper had been disposed of, and she was in search of some other entertainment. Her husband suddenly threw an arm around her as she passed him. Then she was placed on his knee, his pipe was laid on the table, and both her hands were grasped firmly in his.
Nina pouted visibly, for she saw that she was about to be favoured with one of his now frequent avowals of intense, repressed affection.
“I have not had you in my arms all day,” he murmured, with slow, passionate kisses. “You have taken no more notice of me than if I were a table or a chair. Of all disappointing, will-o’-the-wisp, elusive works of creation, commend me to a girl in her teens.”
“I have spoken to you six times, and made ten faces at you,” said Nina, reproachfully, and rolling her head from side to side on his broad breast to dodge an impending caress that came relentless, unavoidable as fate. “If you dare to kiss me again, I shall not speak to you for a week,” she said, warningly, as she struggled into a more dignified position; and he did not, although he muttered something grumblingly to the effect that she was a little bold, cruel thing.
Nina retired to a corner of the room, where she sat for some time evidently pondering some weighty matter. Suddenly she burst out with a remark: “’Steban, you are getting to be more obedient now. Why is it?”
“Possibly because you are better fitted to command.”
“A wayward bit of girlish obstinacy, fretting at the idea of being bound to me, to a woman in love with her fetters and the person to whom they bind her.”