“Dear wife,” I began—and then the complete futility of trying to thresh any single subject out in that airy, sound-carrying dwelling stopped me. I sat down on the yellow box instead, and remarked that I was extremely fatigued.
“So am I,” said she.
“My feet ache so,” I said, “that I fear there may be something serious the matter with them.”
“So do mine,” said she.
This, I may observe, was a new and irritating habit she had got into: whatever I complained of in the way of unaccountable symptoms in divers portions of my frame, instead of sympathizing and suggesting remedies she said hers (whatever it was) did it too.
“Your feet cannot possibly,” said I, “be in the terrible condition mine are in. In the first place mine are bigger, and accordingly afford more scope for disorders. I have shooting pains in them resembling neuralgia, and no doubt traceable to some nervous source.”
“I think bathing might do them good,” I said, determined not to become angry. “Will you get me some hot water, please?”
“Why?” said she.
She had never said such a thing to me before. I could only gaze at her in a profound surprise.