"I think you ought to apologise to me," she blubbered. "Yes, I really do."
"Why should I apologise to you? You moved the furniture against my wish. I moved it against yours. That's all. You began. I didn't begin. You want everything your own way. Well, you won't have it."
She blubbered once more:
"You ought to apologise to me."
And then she wept hysterically.
He meditated sourly, harshly. He had conquered. The furniture was as he wished, and it would remain so. The enemy was in tears, shamed, humiliated. He had a desire to restore her dignity, partly because she was his wife and partly because he hated to see any human being beaten. Moreover, at the bottom of his heart he had a tremendous regard for appearances, and he felt fears for the musical evening. He could not contemplate the possibility of visitors perceiving that the host and hostess had violently quarrelled. He would have sacrificed almost anything to the social proprieties. And he knew that Hilda would not think of them, or at any rate would not think of them effectively. He did not mind apologising to her, if an apology would give her satisfaction. He was her superior in moral force, and naught else mattered.
"I don't think I ought to apologise," he said, with a slight laugh. "But if you think so I don't mind apologising. I apologise. There!" He dropped into an easy-chair.
To him it was as if he had said:
"You see what a magnanimous chap I am."
She tried to conceal her feelings, but she was pleased, flattered, astonished. Her self-respect returned to her rapidly.