Lenette, impelled by two imposing forces, what she was asked to do and what she wanted to do, tried to find the feminine line of the resultant, and hit upon the middle course of stopping her scouring and sweeping as long as he was sitting at his writing. But the moment he got up, and went to the piano for a couple of minutes, or to the window, or across the doorstep, that instant back she would bring her washing and scrubbing instruments of torture into the room again. Siebenkæs wasn't long in becoming cognisant of this terrible alternation and relieving-of-the-guard between her besom and his (satirical) one; and the way she watched and lay in wait for his movements drove all the ideas in his head higgledy-piggledy. At first he bore it with really very great patience, as great as ever a husband has, patience, that is, which lasts for a short time. But after reflecting for a considerable period in silence, that the public, as well as he, were sufferers by this room-cleaning business, and that all posterity was, in a manner, watching and hanging upon every stroke of that besom, which might do its work just as well in the afternoon when he would only be at his law papers--the tumour of his anger suddenly broke, and he grew mad, _i. e_. madder than he was before, and ran up to her and cried-- "Oh! this is the very devil! At it again, eh! I see what you're about. You watch till I get up from the table! Just be kind enough to finish me off at once; hunger and worry will kill me before Easter, whether or not. Good God! It's a thing I really can _not_ comprehend. She sees as well as possible that my book is our larder--that there are whole rations of bread in every page of it--yet she holds my hands the entire morning, so that I can't do a line of it. Here I've been sitting on the nest all this time and only hatched as far as letter E, where I describe the ascent of Justice to heaven. Oh! Lenette! Lenette!" "Very well," said Lenette, "it's all the same whatever I do, it's sure to be wrong; do let me tidy the house properly, like any other woman." And she asked him, in a simple manner, why it was that the bookbinder's little boy (the language is mine, not hers), who played fantasias the whole day long upon a child's toy fiddle, composing and enjoying whole Alexander's Feasts upon it, didn't disturb him with his screeching _un_harmonical progressions--and how he bore the chimneysweep's sweeping the other day so much better than he did her sweeping of the room. And as he couldn't quite manage to condense, just in a moment, into few words the demonstration of the magnitude of the difference which existed between these things, he found it better to get into a rage again, and say--