By all the gods,
I'll never wash another dish,
Nor yet another set of underwear!”
And Mr. Wimple, in his heat, brought down the wooden paddle upon the pile of dishes in the sink, in front of his wife. The crash of the broken china seemed to augment his rage, rather than relieve it, and he raised the paddle for a second blow.
“Ferd!” cried his wife, and caught at the stick.
Mr. Wimple, the aesthete, grabbed her by the arm and strove to loosen her grasp upon the paddle.
“You're bruising my arm!” she cried. But she did not release the stick. Neither did Ferdinand release her wrist. Perhaps he twisted it all the harder because she struggled, and was not conscious that he was doing so... perhaps he twisted it harder quite consciously. At any rate, she suddenly swung upon him, with her free hand, and slapped him across the face with her wet dishcloth.
At that they started apart, both more than a little appalled to realize that they had been engaged in something resembling a fight.
Without another word the bird of song withdrew to smooth his ruffled plumage. He dressed himself carefully, and left the apartment without speaking to his wife again. He felt that he had not had altogether the best of the argument. There was no taste of soap in his mouth, for he had washed his lips and even brushed his teeth... and yet, psychically, as he might have said himself, he still tasted that dishcloth.
But he had not walked far before some of his complacence returned. He removed his hat and ran his fingers through his interesting hair, and began to murmur lyrically: