Instantly a look of pain would sweep across her face. “Do you have to speak to me like that, Thyrsis? If you’d only just tell me, kindly and pleasantly--” “But I’ve told you three or four times!’ “Thyrsis! How can you say that?” “But didn’t I?” “Why, of course not!” And then they would have an argument. He would bring up each case and confront her with it; and how very unloving a procedure was that--and how exasperating was his manner as he did it! Section 13. Then again, Corydon would be going into town to do some shopping; and he would ask her to bring out the afternoon paper. It would be the day of the October massacre, for instance; and he be on fire for the next batch of news. He would explain this to her; he would tell her again and again--whatever else she forgot, she must remember the afternoon paper. He would walk out to meet her, burning with impatience; and he would ask for the paper, and see a blank look come over her face. Then, of course, he would scold. He had certain phrases--“How perfectly unspeakable! Perfectly paralyzing!” How she hated these phrases! “I had so many things to get!” she would exclaim. “But only one thing for me, Corydon!” “Everything is for you--just as much as for myself! All these groceries--look at the bundles! I haven’t had a single moment--” “But how many moments does it take to buy a newspaper?” “But Thyrsis--” “And how many times would I have to tell you? Have I got to go into town myself, just for the sake of a newspaper?” “I tell you I tried my very best to remember it--” “But what’s the matter with you? Is your mind getting weak?” And then like as not Corydon would burst into tears. “Oh, I think you are a brute!” she would cry. “A perfect brute!” Or else, perhaps, she would grow angry, and they would rail at each other, exchanging recriminations. “I think I have burdens enough in my life,” he would exclaim. “I’ve a right to some help from you.” “You have no sense of proportion!” she would answer. “You are impossible! You would drive any saint to distraction.” “Perhaps so. But I can’t drive you anywhere, and I’m sick of trying.” “Oh, if you only weren’t such a talker! You talk--talk--talk!” And all the while they did this, what grief was in the depths of them! And afterwards, what ghastly wounds in Corydon’s soul, that had to be bound up and tended and healed! The pity of it; the shame of it--that they should be able to descend to such sordidness! That their love, which they had planned as a noble temple, should turn out an ugly hovel! “Oh Thyrsis!” the girl would cry. “The idea that you should think less of my soul than of an old newspaper!”