"Nice night for a walk," he said, putting down the spoon; then shouting,
"Come in."

The latch rose unsteadily, and Henrietta, with frozen tears on her
cheeks, and an unintelligible expression of wretchedness and rage,
appeared. After an instant of amazement, he sprang to her and clasped
her in his arms, and she, against her will, and protesting voicelessly,
stumbled into his embrace.

"You are frozen to death," he exclaimed, carrying her to the fire. "This
seal jacket is like a sheet of ice. So is your face" (kissing it). "What
is the matter? Why do you struggle so?"

"Let me go," she gasped, in a vehement whisper. "I h--hate you."

"My poor love, you are too cold to hate anyone--even your husband. You
must let me take off these atrocious French boots. Your feet must be
perfectly dead."

By this time her voice and tears were thawing in the warmth of the
chalet and of his caresses. "You shall not take them off," she said,
crying with cold and sorrow. "Let me alone. Don't touch me. I am going
away--straight back. I will not speak to you, nor take off my things
here, nor touch anything in the house."

"No, my darling," he said, putting her into a capacious wooden armchair
and busily unbuttoning her boots, "you shall do nothing that you don't
wish to do. Your feet are like stones. Yes, yes, my dear, I am a wretch
unworthy to live. I know it."