"And I'd do it again," said that lady, breathlessly, "if there was another vase."
Mr. Hatchard opened his mouth, but speech failed him. He got up and left the room without a word, and, making his way to the scullery, turned on the tap and held his head beneath it. A sharp intake of the breath announced that a tributary stream was looking for the bump down the neck of his shirt.
He was away a long time—so long that the half-penitent Mrs. Hatchard was beginning to think of giving first aid to the wounded. Then she heard him coming slowly back along the passage. He entered the room, drying his wet hair on a hand-kerchief.
"I—I hope I didn't hurt you—much?" said his wife.
Mr. Hatchard drew himself up and regarded her with lofty indignation.
"You might have killed me," he said at last, in thrilling tones. "Then what would you have done?"
"Swept up the pieces, and said you came home injured and died in my arms," said Mrs. Hatchard, glibly. "I don't want to be unfeeling, but you'd try the temper of a saint. I'm sure I wonder I haven't done it before. Why I married a stingy man I don't know."
"Why I married at all I don't know," said her husband, in a deep voice.
"We were both fools," said Mrs. Hatchard, in a resigned voice; "that's what it was. However, it can't be helped now."
"Some men would go and leave you," said Mr. Hatchard.