“I could never go against your father, you know that,” said Mrs. Dodd, following up her advantage.
“Then,” said Abby, “you ought to have warned poor Myrtle. It was a shame to let her marry a man as spoiled as Christopher.”
“I would have married him, anyway,” declared Myrtle with sudden defiance; and her mother-inlaw regarded her approvingly.
“There are worse men than Christopher, and Myrtle knows it,” said she.
“Yes, I do, mother,” agreed Myrtle. “Christopher hasn't one bad habit.”
“I don't know what you call a bad habit,” retorted Abby. “I call having your own way in spite of the world, the flesh, and the devil rather a bad habit. Christopher tramples on everything in his path, and he always has. He tramples on poor Myrtle.”
At that Myrtle laughed. “I don't think I look trampled on,” said she; and she certainly did not. Pink and white and plump was Myrtle, although she had, to a discerning eye, an expression which denoted extreme nervousness.
This morning of spring, when her husband sat doing nothing, she wore this nervous expression. Her blue eyes looked dark and keen; her forehead was wrinkled; her rosy mouth was set. Myrtle and Christopher were not young people; they were a little past middle age, still far from old in look or ability.
Myrtle had kneaded the bread to rise for the last time before it was put into the oven, and had put on the meat to boil for dinner, before she dared address that silent figure which had about it something tragic. Then she spoke in a small voice. “Christopher,” said she.
Christopher made no reply.