Rather irritated at the small impression her eloquence had made upon her companion, Mrs. Ready removed the cambric screen from her face, on which not a trace of grief could be found, and clasping her hands vehemently together, continued,—
“Your husband is mad, to draw you away from all your friends at a moment’s warning! I would remonstrate—I would not go; I would exert a proper spirit, and force him to abandon this Quixotic expedition.”
“You speak hastily, Mrs. Ready. Why should I attempt to prevent an undertaking in which I most cordially concur, and which Mr. Lyndsay thinks would greatly benefit his family?”
“Nonsense! I hate, I repudiate such passive obedience, as beneath the dignity of woman! I am none of your soft bread-and-butter wives, who consider it their duty to become the mere echo of their husbands. If I did not wish to go, no tyrannical lord of the creation, falsely so called, should compel me to act against my inclinations.”
“Compulsion is not necessary: on this subject we both agree.”
“Oh, yes, I see how it is!” with a contemptuous curl of the lip, “you aspire to the character of a good, dutiful wife,—to become an example of enduring patience to all the refractory conjugals in the place, myself among the rest. I understand it all. How amiable some people can be at the expense of others!”
Flora was thunderstruck. “Indeed, Mrs. Ready, I meant no reflection upon you. My words had no personal meaning; I never talk at any one.”
“Oh, certainly not! You are not aware,” with a strong sneer, “of the differences that exist between Mr. Ready and me (and which will continue to exist, as long as mind claims a superiority over matter); that we are only husband and wife in name. But I forgive you.”
“You have nothing to forgive, Mrs. Ready,” said Flora, indignantly; “I never trouble my head with your private affairs—they cannot possibly concern me.”
This gave rise to a scene. Mrs. Ready, who lived in an element of strife, delighted in scenes.