But Tiralla had only eyes for his wife. He continued to beg for a look from her. There was something ridiculous in the way this strong, already grey-haired man worried about this delicate, dainty little woman. "Sophia, my darling, what is the matter? Look at me, my dove, pray don't cry." He succeeded at length in taking the apron away from her face. But when he tried to kiss her cheek her eyes sparkled, and she spat at him like an angry cat. "Oh, you've hurt me! Pooh, how you smell of manure and tobacco, and of gin, too. You stink, you boor!" And she spat on the ground. "My darling," he said quite sadly, "what things you do say. I have only drunk one small--really, only one quite small glass--of gin to-day. I swear it by the Holy Mother." "Don't pollute the Holy Mother by calling on her," she cried in a cutting voice. "Rather blaspheme her, that she sends you the sooner to hell, where you belong. I shall not shed a single tear for you, I swear that." "What--what have I done to you?" the man stammered, quite terrified. "I've never done anything to you. I've bought you dresses, as many as you liked; I've taken you to balls as often as you liked; I've let you dance with whom you liked; I've never said 'no' when you've said 'yes'; and now you speak so horridly to me. You're ill, my dear; I'll send for the doctor." "Yes, ill!" she cried, sobbing bitterly. "You've made me ill--you, you, you!" She rushed at him [Pg 10] as though she wanted to scratch his face with her nails. "I don't like you! I detest you! I--I hate you!" she shrieked in a piercing voice. Her eyes sparkled; she clenched her hands and struck her breast, and then she thrust all her fingers into her beautifully smooth hair and tore it out. Her dainty figure trembled and swayed, and she turned so pale that he thought she was going to faint. The servant opened her eyes in amazement. What was the matter with her? Oh, how stupid she was, how stupid! Why shout it at the master if he hadn't noticed anything? Ay, now she had told him plainly enough--"I hate you!" And he, poor man (may God console him!), what did he do? Was it a laughing or a crying matter? Marianna Sroka did not know if she should think "Oh, you arrant fool!" or if she should wish, "If only he were _my_ husband, or, at least, my lover." For the _gospodarz_ was good, thoroughly good; he wouldn't stint, her--her and her two little ones. That woman was really too nasty. She didn't deserve such a good husband.