He couldn’t help laughing at the woman’s cleverness.
“Well!” he said. “If I do think such a lot about this business, who’s it for? Don’t be silly! It’s all for you.”
“It isn’t! It’s because you like it. You’d go on with it just the same if I was dead!”
He was a little in doubt what to do. Should he ignore her, and let her get over her inopportune temper alone? Or should he wheedle her?
He was really annoyed. He thought it all rather touching and feminine. They were all like that—wanted a man to spend his time making love and playing the fool; and yet, if he didn’t provide all they wanted, or thought they wanted, they’d nag him to death. He kissed her again.
“We’ll go in to the city some day next week,” he said. “We’ll take in a show, and all that. That’s what you need.”
“It isn’t! What I need is some one to talk to. You never want to listen to me. You never ask me what I’ve been doing.”
“But there’s nothing you could do,” he answered innocently, “except cooking and sewing and—”
He was really surprised at her outbreak, she was usually so cheerful and equable. He looked at her flushed and furious face, the tears still in her eyes, and an unpleasant conviction came to him that this was going to be serious—and lasting.
“You come in,” she went on, “and you sit down and eat your dinner, and the only thing you can find to say to me is to call me a cook!”