She shook her head. "That's the worst of it," she says. "I can't do it. Neither can he. I'm not that sort—to be able to give in after I've been mad and spoke harsh. I'm—I'm afraid neither of us will, even when he gets home."
Then I sat up straight. This, I see, was serious—most as serious as she thought.
"What's the reason?" says I.
"I dunno," she says. "We're like that—both of us. We're awful proud—no matter how much we want to give in, we can't."
I sat looking at her.
"Call him up," I says.
She shook her head again and made her pretty mouth all tight.
"I couldn't," she says. "I couldn't."
She seemed to like to sit and talk it over, kind of luxurious. She told me how it began—some twopenny thing about screens in the parlor window. She told me how one thing led to another. I let her talk and I sat there thinking. Pretty soon she went home and she never sung once all day. It didn't seem as if anybody's screens were worth that.