"I will," I said, "I am your wife; you have no right to repulse me. Arthur," noticing with surprise his look of alarm, "you prefer Captain Dillington's company to mine. You selected him for your midnight stroll. You—you—you think n-n-nothing of me. Oh, Arthur, you are unkind, cruel, heartless."
I burst into a passion of tears, which were as much a surprise to me as they were to Arthur. It must have been years since I had wept, and now I was succumbing to a regular storm. I became hysterical. I remember feeling that I was making a fool of myself, and trying to laugh with the most ridiculous result.
"I may be a child," I sobbed, "but I don't want to be slighted; you—you are slighting me. You—do not care for me. You do not,—no—no—you do not. You hate me, I know it. You—wish—you were n-not married. Let me go home. I—I don't want to go, but—if—y-you think it would be better—Why don't you speak? Speak, Arthur, speak."
By this time I was beside myself. I was wrought up to a state of extreme excitement.
