Meanwhile, however, before the Sunday came, notwithstanding all the peace-sermons and peace-treaties in his heart, he found that he had plumped, before he knew where he was, right into the thick of a household battle of the frogs and mice once more, which occurred as follows:--It is matter of history, derived from his own statement, that, as Lenette kept on ceaselessly washing her hands and arms, as well as other things by the hundred (although, for the most part, with cold water, it being impossible to have warm water continually ready)--that, I say, he simply asked, in the gentlest tone in the world, the kindly and half-playful question, "Doesn't that cold water give you cold?" She answered "No," in a _sostenuto_ voice. "Perhaps _warm_ water would be more likely to do so, would it?" he continued. Her answer was, "Yes, it would," delivered in a snapping _staccato_. Moralists and psychologists, who may be a good deal surprised at this half-angry answer to a question so innocent, are, contrary to my expectations, far behindhand in their knowledge of psychology in general, and the psychology of this tale in particular. Lenette knew by experience that the advocate, like Socrates, generally opened his battles in the most dulcet tones, as the Spartans commenced theirs to the sound of flutes, and, in fact, continued them in the same strain, that, like the said Spartans, he might retain complete command of himself. She therefore dreaded that, on this occasion also, his flute-text might usher in a declaration of war against the feminine form of government, of which the various provinces of work are divided one from another by washing-waters, as the judicial districts of modern Bavaria are by rivers. "What key is a husband to play his tune in, I ask you all!" the advocate would often cry with curses, "since, whether he takes it in the major or in the minor, or plays piano or forte, it seems all the same in the end?"