"Please don't trouble to offer me a chair, dear," she went on; "this
one looks comfortable,"--then calmly seated herself, and began to draw
off her gloves.
The cool assurance of the woman was so absurd I had to smile.
"I fancy it would be quite superfluous to offer you anything that
chanced to be within your reach," I said.
"Certainly, dear, when, at the same time, it chances to be my
husband's," she answered, and fell to smoothing out her gloves.
"Come, come!" I exclaimed. "What's the sense in keeping up the farce?"
"What farce, Armand, dear?"
"That I am your husband," I answered curtly. Her 'dears' and her
'Armands' were getting on my nerves.
Her face took on an injured look.
"Judging from your action, the other night and now, it would be well
for me if it were a farce," she said sadly.