"No, I was like the man in The Pit and the Pendulum, and you were—whoever it was that made the walls close in on him."
"I refuse," she said, "to be called a Spanish Inquisition."
"You may refuse as much as you like, but that's the sort of thing you've been. How you worked on my domestic affections and my household pride! When Helen forgot to go to her music-lesson you said the poor child was evidently run down and wanted a breath of sea-air. When Rosie lost her German exercise-book, and when Peggy fell off her bicycle, you worked both these accidents round into an imperative demand for salt water. When John was bitten by a gnat you said the spot was bilious and things would never be right with him until he got into a more bracing climate; and when Bates tripped up in the pantry and broke a week's income in plates and dishes you said he needed tone and would get it at the sea. Seaside, seaside, seaside! I couldn't got away from it."
"Oh, but you haven't been there yet, you know. You're shouting before you're hurt."
"No," I said, "I am not—I mean I am hurt, but I'm not shouting. I'm just whispering a few salutary truths."
"And there's another thing," she said; "it must be terrible for you to know what a designing person your wife is."
"Madam," I said, "my wife is as heaven made her. I will not permit her to be abused. She has good impulses. She means well. Her plain sewing is quite excellent."
"Spare me," who said, "oh spare me. I will never go to the sea again."
"But you shall go to the sea," I said. "Everything is settled. The agreement is signed; the tickets are all but taken. John and Peggy are panting for pails and spades. Do you think I want to stand in the way of their innocent pleasures? We will all try for shrimps while you sit on a heap of sand and tell us not to get too wet, or that it's time for tea, and have I forgotten the thermos-flask again."
"Horatio," she said, "I can see you paddling in my mind's eye."