Mr. Sherwin filled himself a glass—held it up admiringly to the light—said, “Your good health, Sir, your very good health;” and drank the wine with the air of a connoisseur, and a most expressive smacking of the lips. His wife (to whom he offered nothing) looked at him all the time with the most reverential attention.
“You are taking nothing yourself, Mrs. Sherwin,” I said.
“ Mrs. Sherwin, Sir,” interposed her husband, “never drinks wine, and can’t digest cake. A bad stomach—a very bad stomach. Have another glass yourself. Won’t you, indeed? This sherry stands me in six shillings a bottle—ought to be first-rate wine at that price: and so it is. Well, if you won’t have any more, we will proceed to business. Ha! ha! business as I call it; pleasure I hope it will be to you .”
Mrs. Sherwin coughed—a very weak, small cough, half-stifled in its birth.
“There you are again!” he said, turning fiercely towards her—“Coughing again! Six months of the doctor—a six months’ bill to come out of my pocket—and no good done—no good, Mrs. S. ”
“Oh, I am much better, thank you—it was only a little—”
“Well, Sir, the evening after you left me, I had what you may call an explanation with my dear girl. She was naturally a little confused and—and embarrassed, indeed. A very serious thing of course, to decide at her age, and at so short a notice, on a point involving the happiness of her whole life to come.”
Here Mrs. Sherwin put her handkerchief to her eyes—quite noiselessly; for she had doubtless acquired by long practice the habit of weeping in silence. Her husband’s quick glance turned on her, however, immediately, with anything but an expression of sympathy.