“Yes, for trusting you,” said Mrs Jenkles, bitterly. “Nice life we lead: you with the worst horse and the worst cab on the rank, and me with the worst husband.”
“Is he, Sally?” said Sam, with a twinkle of the eye.
“Yes,” said Mrs Jenkles, angrily; “and that makes it all the worse, when he might be one of the best. Oh, Sam,” she said, pitifully, “do I ever neglect you or your home?”
“Not you,” he said, throwing down his pipe, and looking round at the shining tins, bright fireplace, and general aspect of simple comfort and cleanliness. “You’re the best old wife in the world.”
And he got up and stood behind her chair with his arms round her neck.
“Don’t touch me, Sam. I’m very, very much hurt.”
“Well, it was all your fault, little woman,” he said, holding the comely face, so that his wife could not look round at him.
“And how, pray?” said she.
“Didn’t you send me up to see that poor woman as Ratty knocked down?”
“Yes; but did you go?”