"Why not?" said Jane.
"Why not? I married her because I wasn't going to have her worked to death in that damned lodging-house of her uncle's."
"You married her because you loved her," said Jane quietly.
"Well—of course. And I'm not going to let my wife cook my dinner and make my bed and empty my slops. How can I?"
"She'll die if you don't, George."
"Die?"
"She'll get horribly ill. She's ill now because she can't run about and sweep and dust and cook dinners. She's dying for love of all the beautiful things you won't let her have—pots and pans and carpet-sweepers and besoms. You don't want her to die of an unhappy passion for a besom?"
"I don't want to see her with a besom."
Jane pleaded. "She'd look so pretty with it, George. Just think how pretty she'd look in a little house, playing with a carpet-sweeper."
"On her knees, scrubbing the kitchen floor——"