excitement, kissed the bosom friend before he knew what he had done.
Mrs. Korner sat
waiting for her husband that evening in the
drawing-room. She was dressed as for a journey, and about the corners
of her mouth were lines familiar to Christopher, the sight of which
sent his heart into his boots. Fortunately, he recovered himself in
time to greet her with a smile. It was not the smile he had been
rehearsing half the day, but that it was a smile of any sort
astonished the words away from Mrs. Korner's lips, and gave him the
inestimable
advantage of first speech.
"Well," said Mr. Korner
cheerily, "and how did you like it?"
For the moment Mrs. Korner feared her husband's new
complaint had
already reached the
chronic stage, but his still smiling face
reassured her--to that
extent at all events.
"When would you like me to 'go it' again? Oh, come," continued Mr.
Korner in
response to his wife's
bewilderment, "you surely have not
forgotten the talk we had at breakfast-time--the first morning of
Mildred's visit. You hinted how much more
attractive I should be for
occasionally 'letting myself go!'"
Mr. Korner, watching
intently, perceived that upon Mrs. Korner
recollection was slowly forcing itself.
"I was
unable to
oblige you before," explained Mr. Korner, "having to
keep my head clear for business, and not
knowing what the effect upon
one might be. Yesterday I did my best, and I hope you are pleased
with me. Though, if you could see your way to being content--just for
the present and until I get more used to it--with a similar
performance not oftener than once a
fortnight, say, I should be
grateful," added Mr. Korner.
"You mean--" said Mrs. Korner, rising.
"I mean, my dear," said Mr. Korner, "that almost from the day of our
marriage you have made it clear that you regard me as a milksop. You
have got your notion of men from silly books and sillier plays, and
your trouble is that I am not like them. Well, I've shown you that,
if you insist upon it, I can be like them."
"But you weren't," argued Mrs. Korner, "not a bit like them."
"I did my best,"
repeated Mr. Korner; "we are not all made alike.
That was _my_ drunk."
"I didn't say 'drunk.'"
"But you meant it," interrupted Mr. Korner. "We were talking about
drunken men. The man in the play was drunk. You thought him
amusing."
"He was
amusing," persisted Mrs. Korner, now in tears. "I meant that
sort of drunk."
"His wife," Mr. Korner reminded her, "didn't find him
amusing. In the
third act she was threatening to return home to her mother, which, if
I may judge from
finding you here with all your clothes on, is also
the idea that has occurred to you."
"But you--you were so awful," whimpered Mrs. Korner.
"What did I do?" questioned Mr. Korner.
"You came hammering at the door--"
"Yes, yes, I remember that. I wanted my supper, and you poached me a
couple of eggs. What happened after that?"
The
recollection of that crowning indignity lent to her voice the true
note of tragedy.
"You made me say my tables--my nine times!"
Mr. Korner looked at Mrs. Korner, and Mrs. Korner looked at Mr.
Korner, and for a while there was silence.
"Were you--were you really a little bit on," faltered Mrs. Korner, "or
only pretending?"
"Really," confessed Mr. Korner. "For the first time in my life. If
you are content, for the last time also."
"I am sorry," said Mrs. Korner, "I have been very silly. Please
forgive me."
End