He tried to complete the sentence; but the absurdity of the proposition was too much for him.  He laughed till his face ached, while Virginia sat silent, watching him sideways.  When he had calmed down, he said: 

“It’s the funniest thing I ever heard!  You’ll enjoy it too!  He wanted me to put up a factory—­to make infants’ food out of prickly pears—­” Once more he was unable to proceed for laughter.  “Infants’ food!  Prickly pears!  Isn’t that immense?  Isn’t that the funniest idea that—­”

Noticing that Virginia did not join in his merriment, he stopped and asked: 

“Don’t you think it’s funny?”

“Yes, dear.  It probably is,” she answered evasively.

“There’s no ‘probably’ about it—­it certainly is,” he insisted.  “I don’t think you got it, so I’ll tell it again.  He wanted me to put up a factory—­”

“I understood,” she interrupted coldly.

He looked at her closely, as if unable to understand her cold indifference.

“Well—­don’t you think it’s funny?”

Wearily she answered: 

“Yes, dear, it is.”

“You don’t seem to enjoy it,” he grumbled.

She made no reply for a moment, at a loss what to say, anxious to avoid saying anything that would furnish him with an excuse for a scene.  Her only hope was in keeping him in good humor and persuading him to retire.  It would be terrible if she had to endure the same horrible experience with him as on former occasions when he came home in this condition.  Rising, she said quietly: 

“I’m very tired, so I think I’ll say good-night, dear.”

She went towards her bedroom door, but before she could reach it, he had intercepted her.  There was a determined, not to be denied look in his face as he exclaimed: 

“Not just yet!  Not just yet!”

Trembling in every limb, but endeavoring to remain calm, she looked up at him pleadingly: 

“Please let me go,” she said coaxingly.  “Be a nice, good husband and say good-night—­won’t you, dear, please?”

He put his arm around her waist.  Hoarsely, amorously, he whispered: 

“Stay with me a little—­I want you here.”

“No, dear—­please, dear!” she pleaded, quickly disentangling herself from his grasp.  “You’ll make me so happy if you will!  Besides, it’s quite late, remember, and I’m tired—­I really am—­”

He stood off a little way, looking more closely at her as if doubtful that she was speaking the truth.

“Tired, are you?” he frowned.

“Yes, dear,” she pleaded anxiously.

He laughed—­a strange, horrid, artificial laugh which made her shudder.  She had heard that laugh before and it omened nothing good.  Quickly he said: 

“I know the best thing in the world to cure that tired feeling—­champagne.  We’ll have some—­what do you say?”

He leaned towards her, trying to fondle her, but she avoided him and, falling back, stood looking at him.  Her face was pale.  Outwardly she was composed, but her heart was beating fast.  There must be some explanation, after all.  It might as well be now as later.  Looking him straight in the face with an expression of contempt and disdain in her eyes that made him wince, she said coldly: