Calcraft was very noisy in his morning humors, and the banging of windows caused his wife to raise a curious voice.
From the breakfast-room she called, "What is the matter with you this morning, Cal? Didn't Wagner agree with you last night? Or was it the—?"
"Yes, it was that," replied a surly voice.
"Have you hung your wrists out of the window and given them a good airing?"
"I have." Calcraft laughed rudely.
"Then for goodness' sake hurry in to breakfast, if you are cooled off; the eggs are." Mrs. Calcraft sighed. It was their usual conversation; thus the day began.... Her husband entered the room. Of a thick-set, almost burly figure, Calcraft was an enormously muscular man. His broad shoulders, powerful brow, black, deep-set eyes, inky black hair and beard—the beard worn in Hunding fashion—made up a personality slightly forbidding. The suppleness of his gait, the ready laughter and bright expression of the eye, soon corrected this aversion; the critic was liked, and admired,—after the critical fashion. Good temper and wit in the evening ever are. The recurring matrimonial duel over the morning teacups awoke him for the day's labors; he actually profited from the verbal exercising of Tekla's temper.
"After what you promised!" she inquired in her most reproachful manner. Calcraft smiled. "And your story in the Watchman. Now, Cal, aren't you a bit ashamed? We have heard much worse Siegmunds."
"Not much," he grunted, swallowing a huge cup of tea at a draught.
"Yet you roasted the poor boy as you would never dare roast a singer with any sort of reputation. Hinweg's Siegmund was—"
"Like himself, too thin," said her husband; "fancy a thin Siegmund! Besides, the fellow doesn't know how to sing, and he can't act."