You can't
do that, Alfred Burton, and you must be a bigger fool even than you look
to imagine that you can!"
"Ellen," he faltered, "don't you want me back?"
"Not I!" she replied, fiercely. "Not you nor your motor-car nor your
money nor any part of you. Come swaggering in, dropping your cigar ash
over the place, and behaving as though you'd been a respectable person
all your life!" she continued, indignantly. "What right have you got to
think that your wife was made to be your slave or your trained dog, to
beg when you hold out a piece of biscuit, and go and lie down alone when
you don't want her. Send your three pounds a week and get out of it.
That's all I want to hear of you! You know the way, don't you?"
Her outstretched forefinger pointed to the door. Burton had never felt
so pitifully short of words in his life.
"I--I've asked the Johnsons to supper," he stammered, as he took up his
hat.
"Take them to your west-end, then!" Ellen cried, scornfully. "Take them
riding in your motor-car. Why don't you tell the man to drive up and
down the avenue, that every one may see how fine you are! Would you
like to know just what I think of you?"
Burton looked into her face and felt a singular reluctance to listen to
the torrent of words which he felt was ready to break upon his head.
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