Campaspe! He came in; slunk would be a better word.
She rang the bell, and asked Frederika to light the lamps. As the room became brighter she looked at her husband; he was so small, so tired, so worried, so generally insignificant. She also noted, with some alarm, that he wore an air of conscious guilt, which betokened an effort at explanation.
He began, indeed, at once: Campaspe, can you forgive me?
Forgive you? Her tone was gentle. For what?
For what I did last night.
She was very languid, very uninterested, very kind, a trifle impatient, perhaps, with his stupidity.
There is, of course, nothing for which I need forgive you.
Campaspe!
What have I to forgive you?
You saw me with . . .
That! She laughed. Cupid, why will you always be so romantic? Will you never believe me when I tell you that I don't care in the least what you do? I should never have married you if I had planned to worry about you. I married you because I knew I should never have to worry about you. You understand my views perfectly. Do just as you please, but I will not have you making these scenes over nothing.
