Sheila’s own waif of a husband had objected to her airing the truth, he had even gotten the nerve to bring up the word divorce. “Here goes,” he said. The expression, however, which would chiefly have interested a beholder, was that of settled and profound melancholy. "A bad girl?" She put the question as she would have put any question—leveleyed and level-toned. He looked at his port wine as though that tawny ruby contained the solution of the matter. But she was disappointed. Nobody will ever know what the fleas thought. Wood," she cried, as the staff fell from his grasp. He encouraged her to join him in his debauchery.
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