“Did Mullins come about those sash cords?” he asked.
“No—no one came. I haven’t seen a soul all day,” she answered; but he missed the significance of her tone.
She hurried back and forth with steaming dishes, and at last informed him, rather curtly, that his dinner was ready. He sat down at once and ate with good appetite, but in silence and abstraction, because he had to think about those sash cords. At last he finished and leaned back in his chair, ready for the amenities of life.
“Well, Kathleen!” he said. “You’re one fine little wife!”
He was innocently oblivious of his wife’s state of mind. It hadn’t occurred to him that she kept on existing and thinking when he wasn’t there. His remark was a match to dry straw.
“A fine little cook, I guess you mean!” she said with sudden asperity. “That’s your idea of a wife!”
He laughed.
“Well!” he said. “They kind of go together, don’t they?”
“Looks like it,” she said; “only some cooks get paid.”
It was his habit to ignore remarks like that. Women, he considered, were often fanciful and “touchy.” It was better to leave them alone at such times. He lighted a big cigar, deliberately took his mind off his wife and all domestic concerns, and began to meditate on his business.