Then we ate the bacon and cabbage, agreeing that it was a pity to let it get any cooler.
Then we ate the pudding they spoke of—for after this they began to be able to speak—as a trifle.
And then—and it is as strange to relate as it is difficult to believe—we returned to the stew-pot and ate every one of the now ready and steaming hot potatoes; and never, I can safely say, was there anything so excellent.
Later on, entering our caravan much softened by these various experiences and by a cup of extremely good coffee made by Edelgard, but feeling justified in withdrawing, now that darkness had set in, from the confusions of the washing up, I found my wife searching in the depths of the yellow box for dishcloths.
I stood in the narrow gangway lighting a cigar, and when I had done lighting it I realized that I was close to her and alone. One is never at any time far from anything in these vehicles, but on this occasion the nearness combined with the privacy suggested that the moment had arrived for the words I had decided she must hear—kind words, not hard as I had at first intended, but needful.
I put out my arm, therefore, and proposed to draw her toward me as a preliminary to peace.
She would not, however, come.
Greatly surprised—for resentment had not till then been one of her failings—I opened my mouth to speak, but she, before I could do so, said, “Do you mind not smoking inside the caravan?”
Still more surprised, and indeed amazed (for this was petty) but determined not to be shaken out of my kindness, I gently began, “Dear wife——” and was going on when she interrupted me.
“Dear husband,” she said, actually imitating me, “I know what you are going to say. I always know what you are going to say. I know all the things you ever can or ever do say.”