"My dear, you are unreasonable."
"I don't think so. I should like to get to the end of the requirements of my lord and master sometimes."
"Now, my dear, you really are very silly."
"Please say something original, my dear. I have heard that till it has lost the charm of novelty."
"Come now, Hermione, don't let's quarrel."
"My dear Sir, who thinks of quarrelling? Not I; I'm sure I was only asking to be directed. I trust some time, if I live to be ninety, to suit your fastidious taste. I trust the coffee is right this morning, and the tea, and the toast, and the steak, and the servants, and the front-hall mat, and the upper-story hall-door, and the basement premises; and now I suppose I am to be trained in respect to my general education. I shall set about the tails of my gs at once, but trust you will prepare a list of any other little things that need emendation."
Enthusius pushes away his coffee, and drums on the table.
"If I might be allowed one small criticism, my dear, I should observe that it is not good manners to drum on the table," said his fair opposite.
"Hermione, you are enough to drive a man frantic!" exclaims Enthusius, rushing out with bitterness in his soul, and a determination to take his dinner at Delmonico's.
Enthusius feels himself an abused man, and thinks there never was such a sprite of a woman,—the most utterly unreasonable, provoking human being he ever met with. What he does not think of is, that it is his own inconsiderate, constant fault-finding that has made every nerve so sensitive and sore, that the mildest suggestion of advice or reproof on the most indifferent subject is impossible. He has not, to be sure, been the guilty partner in this morning's encounter; he has said only what is fair and proper, and she has been unreasonable and cross; but, after all, the fault is remotely his.