He tilted his head back so that the squirrel could get a better look and told it that, at any rate, this was no kind of wife for a good man.
Then he stood up and began to walk home, looking down at the ground, kicking thoughtfully at fallen leaves and occasionally scratching his head.
He came out from among the trees and across the yard of his home, dragging his feet like a man who has walked a long way.
He started speaking as soon as he put down his tools.
"Wife, I have been thinking about our marriage and—it hurts me to say it, you understand—but it was too sudden. No—don't interrupt," he said, though his wife had shown no sign of breaking in. "I'm very sorry, but I feel that we're simply not suited to each other."
"All right, husband, I'll leave," she answered in quite an ordinary voice, "even if it makes me unhappy. Could you do only one thing for me before I go? Nothing much—I'd like you to make me a tub—as a kind of souvenir. A very large one. For bathing in."
"The simplest thing in the world," said Goro, glad to get off so easily. "I have one ready, it happens. The very one I was sitting against when you came out of the forest. A very sound tub, one of my best."
"It has a lid, I hope," she said.
"All of my tubs have lids," said Goro. "Well-fitting lids. Water stays warm in my tubs, even without a fire, once that lid is on. Come, I'll show it to you."
He led her out to the tub.