When the thunder of his downfall had subsided he heard Serina say, "Now that you're up you better stay up."
So he wriggled out from under and got himself aloft, rubbing his indignant back. If Serina was no Aurora rising from the sea, her husband was no Phœbus Apollo. His gown looked like hers, only younger. It had a frivolous little pocket, and the slit-skirt effect on both sides; and it was cut what is called "misses' length," disclosing two of the least attractive shins in Carthage.
He was aching all over and he was angry, and he snarled as he stood at the wash-stand:
"Have you finished with this water?"
"Yes," she said, muffledly, from the depths of a face-towel.
"Why don't you ever empty the bowl then?" he growled, and viciously tilted the contents into the—must I say the awful word?—the slop-jar—what other word is there?
The water splashed over and struck the bare feet of both icily. They yowled and danced like Piute Indians, and glared at each other as they danced. They glared in a nagged rage that would have turned into an ugly quarrel if a great sorrow had not suddenly overswept them. They saw themselves as they were and by a whim of memory they remembered what they had been. He laughed bitterly:
"It's the first time we've danced together in a long time, eh?"
Her lower lip began to quiver and swell quite independently and she sighed:
"Not much like the dances we used to dance. Oh dear!"