Her husband had caught her leaning over a precipice into the ruins of the oubliette, and had punished her by flogging her back with a switch. She answered in whispers, for there was the white arm of a woman in the next box peeping beyond the partition within a yard of him. Kneebone made no effort to check the unreasonable merriment of his companions, but rather seemed to encourage it. She wanted to be on with the show. He ushered them with an amiable flat hand into a minute apartment with a little gas-stove, a silk crimson-covered sofa, and a bright little table, gay with napery and hot-house flowers.
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