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He had reached the stage when that little unconscious usurpation in
itself could annoy him.
"How's your mother?" he asked, dourly for him.
"She's asleep."
"Funny. This is the third attack this month, and each time it lasts
longer. Confound that neuralgia!"
"She's easier now."
He pushed back his plate.
"Then I'll go in and sit with her while she sleeps."
She, who was so fastidiously dainty of manner, half rose, spilling her
soup.
"No," she said, "you mustn't! Not now!" And sat down again hurriedly,
wanting not to appear perturbed.
A curious thing happened then to Louis. His lower lip came pursing
out like a little shelf and a hitherto unsuspected look of pigginess
fattened over his rather plump face.
"You quit butting into me and my wife's affairs, you, or get the hell
out of here," he said, without raising his voice or his manner.
She placed her hand to the almost unbearable flutter of her heart.
"Louis! You mustn't talk like that to--me!"
"Don't make me say something I'll regret.


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