Mrs. Fink turned on the hot water and set the washboards in the suds. Up from the flat below came the gay laugh of Mrs. Cassidy. It sounded like a taunt, a flaunting of her own happiness in the face of the unslugged bride above. Now was Mrs. Fink's time.
Suddenly she turned like a fury upon the man reading.
«You lazy loafer!» she cried, «must I work my arms off washing and toiling for the ugly likes of you? Are you a man or are you a kitchen hound?»
Mr. Fink dropped his paper, motionless from surprise. She feared that he would not strike—that the provocation had been insufficient. She leaped at him and struck him fiercely in the face with her clenched hand. In that instant she felt a thrill of love for him such as she had not felt for many a day. Rise up, Martin Fink, and come into your kingdom! Oh, she must feel the weight of his hand now—just to show that he cared—just to show that he cared!
Mr. Fink sprang to his feet—Maggie caught him again on the jaw with a wide swing of her other hand. She closed her eyes in that fearful, blissful moment before his blow should come—she whispered his name to herself—she leaned to the expected shock, hungry for it.
In the flat below Mr. Cassidy, with a shamed and contrite face was powdering Mame's eye in preparation for their junket. From the flat above came the sound of a woman's voice, high–raised, a bumping, a stumbling and a shuffling, a chair overturned—unmistakable sounds of domestic conflict.
«Mart and Mag scrapping?» postulated Mr. Cassidy. «Didn't know they ever indulged. Shall I trot up and see if they need a sponge holder?»
One of Mrs. Cassidy's eyes sparkled like a diamond. The other twinkled at least like paste.
«Oh, oh,» she said, softly and without apparent meaning, in the feminine ejaculatory manner. «I wonder if—wonder if! Wait, Jack, till I go up and see.»
Up the stairs she sped. As her foot struck the hallway above out from the kitchen door of her flat wildly flounced Mrs. Fink.