Soon after dinner they repaired to the drawing room. In turning from the fireplace he stumbled against a large, elegant vase.
“Confound that thing!” he exclaimed, “I always did hate those vases that set on the floor.”
“So do I!” she chimed in, and putting out her foot with an expressive jerk, she kicked it over, and broke it into a hundred fragments.
“Do you see what you’ve done?” he cried, “have you forgotten that that vase was a present from me?”
“No, I haven’t, but we both hate it, and what’s the use of keeping it?”
This was but the beginning; from that time on, let him but murmur against a dish, and it was flung on to the floor; torrents of abuse were poured upon the head of a maid with whom he found fault; some of the handsomest furniture in the house was broken, the moment it gave offense to him. In no vehemence was he alone—his wife’s anathemas and abuse joined and exceeded his, until—he had enough of it—an overdose, in fact, and erelong he turned a corner—came out of Hurricane Gulch into Peaceful Lane, and he hoped the latter would know no turning. The servants whispered of times when he would tell his wife of guests invited to the house, and entreat her not to make a scene while they were there.
Sixteen years have gone by, and this woman is still above ground; stranger still the man is alive as well; and strangest of all, they are still under the same roof. Indeed, if report and appearance are to be trusted, Mr. Daemon is a model husband, and Mrs. Daemon’s sudden and amazing temper has spent itself and left her a person of spirit indeed, but in nowise unamiable, and least of all, an ugly character.
No one who saw them walk past me, arm in arm, that morning, on their way to the wreck, would have dreamed of their past.
Truly, man is a harp, and truly, woman does the harping.