“What?” cried Mr. Wimple, outraged. He ran one of his plump hands through his thick tawny hair and stared at his wife with latent hatred in his brown eyes... those eyes of which so many women had remarked: “Aren't Mr. Wimple's eyes wonderful; just simply _wonderful!_ So magnetic, if you get what I mean!” Mr. Wimple's head, by many of his female admirers, was spoken of as “leonine.” His detractors--for who has them not?--dwelt rather upon the physical reminder of Mr.'Wimple, which was more suggestive of the ox. “I said I wanted you to do the twins' wash for me,” repeated Mrs. Wimple, awed neither by the lion's visage nor the bovine torso. Mrs. Wimple's own hair was red; and in a quietly red-haired sort of way she looked as if she expected her words to be heeded. “H----!” said the poet, in a round baritone which enriched the ear as if a harpist had plucked the lovely string of G. “H----!” But there was more music than resolution in the sound. It floated somewhat tentatively upon the air. Mr. Wimple was not in revolt. He was wondering if he had the courage to revolt. Mrs. Wimple lifted the cover of the laundry tub, which stood beside the sink, threw in the babies' “things,” turned on the hot water, and said: “Better shave some laundry soap and throw it in, Ferd.” “Heavens!” declared Mr. Wimple. “To expect a man of my temperament to do that!” But still he did not say that he would not do it. “Someone has to do it,” contributed his wife. “I never kicked on the dishes, Nell,” said Mr. Wimple. “But this, _this_ is too much!” “I have been doing it for ten days, ever since the maid left. I'm feeling rotten to-day, and you can take a turn at it, Ferd. My back hurts.” Still Mrs. Wimple was not unpleasant; but she was obviously determined. “Your back!” sang Mr. Wimple, the minstrel, and shook his mane. “Your _back_ hurts you! My _soul_ hurts _me!_ How could I go direct from that--that damnable occupation--that most repulsive of domestic occupations--that bourgeois occupation--to Mrs. Watson's tea this afternoon and deliver my message?” A shimmer of heat (perhaps from her hair) suddenly dried up whatever dew of pleasantness remained in Mrs. Wimple's manner. “They're just as much your twins as they are mine,” she began... but just then one of them cried. A fraction of a second later the other one cried.