“Feeling as I do this morning, that I’d like to wring everybody’s neck for them,” the average woman argues to herself; “my proper course—I see it clearly—is to creep about the house, asking of everyone that has the time to spare to trample on me.” She coaxes you to tell her of her faults. When you have finished she asks for more—reminds you of one or two you had missed out. She wonders why it is that she is always wrong. There must be a reason for it; if only she could discover it. She wonders how it is that people can put up with her—thinks it so good of them. At last, of course, the explosion happens. The awkward thing is that neither she herself nor anyone else knows when it is coming. A husband cornered me one evening in the club. It evidently did him good to talk. He told me that, finding his wife that morning in one of her rare listening moods, he had seized the opportunity to mention one or two matters in connection with the house he would like to have altered; that was, if she had no objection. She had—quite pleasantly—reminded him the house was his, that he was master there. She added that any wish of his of course was law to her. He was a young and inexperienced husband; it seemed to him a hopeful opening. He spoke of quite a lot of things—things about which he felt that he was right and she was wrong. She went and fetched a quire of paper, and borrowed his pencil and wrote them down. Later on, going through his letters in the study, he found an unexpected cheque; and ran upstairs and asked her if she would not like to come out with him and get herself a new hat. “I could have understood it,” he moaned, “if she had dropped on me while I was—well, I suppose, you might say lecturing her. She had listened to it like a lamb—hadn’t opened her mouth except to say ‘yes, dear,’ or ‘no, dear.’ Then, when I only asked her if she’d like a new hat, she goes suddenly raving mad. I never saw a woman go so mad.” I doubt if there be anything in nature quite as unexpected as a woman’s temper, unless it be tumbling into a hole. I told all this to Dick. I have told it him before. One of these days he will know it. “You are right to be angry with me,” Robina replied meekly; “there is no excuse for me. The whole thing is the result of my own folly.” Her pathetic humility should have appealed to him. He can be sympathetic, when he isn’t hungry. Just then he happened to be hungry. “I left you making a pie,” he said. “It looked to me a fair-sized pie. There was a duck on the table, with a cauliflower and potatoes; Veronica was up to her elbows in peas. It made me hungry merely passing through the kitchen. I wouldn’t have anything to eat in the town for fear of spoiling my appetite. Where is it all? You don’t mean to say that you and Veronica have eaten the whole blessed lot!” There is one thing—she admits it herself—that exhausts Veronica’s patience: it is unjust suspicion.