When she came back she noticed by the clock that she had been gone almost half an hour. She was surprised to see Paul still in the dining-room, as though he had not stirred since she left him. He was sitting in an attitude of moody idleness, singular with him, his elbows on the table, his chin in his hands. He looked desperately, tragically tired. No inward monitor gave any warning to Lydia of what the next few moments were to be in her life. She crossed the room quickly to her husband, feeling a great longing to be close to him. As she did so, a rattling clatter of tin was heard from the kitchen, followed by a shout of roaring laughter. Something in Paul's tense face snapped. He started up, overturning his chair. "Oh, _damn_ that idiot!" he cried. The door opened behind them. 'Stashie stood there, her red hair hidden in a mass of soft dough that was beginning to ooze down over her perspiring, laughing face. "I just wanted to show you what a comycal thing happened, Mis' Hollister," she began, in her familiar way. "'Twould make a pig laugh, now! I'd begun my bread dough, and put it on a shelf, an'--" "Oh, get out of here!" Paul yelled at her furiously. "And less noise out of you in the kitchen!" He slammed the door shut on her retreat, and turned to Lydia with a face she did not recognize. The room grew black before her eyes. "I suppose you still prefer that dirty Irish slut to my wishes," he said. His words, his accent, the quality of his voice, were the zigzag of lightning to his wife. The storm burst over her head like thunder. She was amazed to feel a great wave of anger surge up in her, responsive to his own. She cried, in outraged resentment at his injustice: "You know very well--" and stopped, horrified at the passion which rose clamoring to her lips. "I know very well that my home is the last place where my wishes are consulted," said Paul, catching her up. "I will dismiss 'Stashie to-morrow," returned Lydia with a bitter, proud brevity. "You're rather slow to take a hint. How long has she been with us? As for your saying that you can't get anyone else, and can't keep house decently as other decent people do, there isn't a word of truth in it! You can do whatever you care enough about to try to do. You didn't make an incompetent mess of taking care of the baby as you did out of that disgusting dinner party!" It was the first time he had ever spoken outright to her of that experience. Lydia was transfixed to hear the poison of the memory as fresh in his voice as though it had happened yesterday. "I'm simply not worth putting yourself out for," went on Paul, turning away and picking up his overcoat. "I'm only a common, ignorant, materialistic beast of an American husband!" He added in an insulting tone: "I suppose you'd like two husbands; one to earn your living for you, and one to talk to about your soul and to exchange near-culture with!"