“Liked him!” cried Jenny. “I loved him. He’s splendid, he’s glorious, he’s the simplest, manliest, tenderest, most natural creature in the world. But it’s just my luck—another woman has got him. And such a woman, too! A nagger, a shrew, a cat, a piece of human flint, a thankless wretch, whose whole selfish body isn’t worth the tip of his little finger.”
“Is she so bad as that?” said Mrs. Quiggin, smiling feebly above the top edge of her book, which covered her face up to the mouth.
“My dear,” said Jenny, solemnly, “she has turned him out of the house.”
“Good gracious!” said Mrs. Quiggin; and away went the book on to the sofa.
Then Jenny told a woeful tale, her eyes flashing, her lips quivering, and her voice ringing with indignation. And, anxious to hit hard, she hovered so closely over the truth as sometimes to run the risk of uncovering it. The poor fellow had made long voyages abroad and saved some money. He had loved his wife passionately—that was the only blot on his character. He always dreamt of coming home, and settling down in comfort for the rest of his life. He had come at last, and a fine welcome had awaited him. His wife was as proud as Lucifer—the daughter of some green-grocer, of course. She had been ashamed of her husband, apparently, and settling down hadn’t suited her. So she had nagged the poor fellow out of all peace of mind and body, taken his money, and turned him adrift.
Jenny’s audacity carried her through, and Mrs. Quiggin, who was now wide awake, listened eagerly. “Can it be possible that there are women like that?” she said, in a hushed whisper.
“Indeed, yes,” said Jenny; “and men are simple enough to prefer them to better people.”
“But, Jenny,” said Mrs. Quiggin, with a far-away look, “we have only heard one story, you know. If we were inside the Manxman’s house—if we knew all—might we not find that there are two sides to its troubles?”
“There are two sides to its street-door,” said Jenny, “and the husband is on the outside of it.”
“She took his money, you say, Jenny?”