‘You give me an excellent excuse to have in the Madeira,’ said his hostess, reaching for a silver hand bell and setting it pealing. “I’ve got bad faults. It’s a pure joy of giving—giving to YOU. “I said you were”—he shouted—“NOT TO GO!” She made, and overdid, an immense effort to be a princess. He tried this sentence with expletives. “I’m sorry, ma’am, to seem the cause of any disturbance, but this,” he pointed to Anna, “is my wife. Other girls gathered around like sheep. And I want you for myself—for my wife. ‘But you do not understand, mon ami.
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