‘Well!’ she would say.

‘Well what?’ he would answer, already beginning to tremble.

‘You have one of your critical moods on again.’

‘Not at all.  What’s the matter?’

’You have, I say....  Well, why do you look at the envelope in that way?  I know what it is, well enough.’

‘If you know, dear, why do you ask?’

‘Don’t try to be sarcastic, dear.  It is so vulgar.’

‘I hadn’t the least intention of being so.’

‘Yes, you had....  Give me that letter.’

‘All right.’

‘Yes, you admire every woman’s writing but your wife’s.’

’Don’t be silly, dear.  See, I don’t feel very well this morning.  I don’t want to be angry.’

’Angry!  Be angry; what does it matter to me?  Be as angry as you like.  I wish I had never seen you.’

‘Somewhat of a non sequitur, is it not, my love?’

‘Don’t “my love” me.  With your nasty cool sarcasm!’

’Isn’t it better to try and keep cool rather than to fly into a temper about nothing?  See, I know you are a little nervous this morning.  Let us be friends before I go.’

‘I have no wish to be friends.’

‘Dora!’

William would then lace his boots, and don his coat in silence, before making a final effort at reconciliation.

’Well, dear, good-bye.  Perhaps you will love me again by the time I get home.’

‘Perhaps I shan’t be here when you come home.’

‘For pity’s sake, don’t begin that silly nonsense, Dora.’

’It isn’t silly nonsense.  I say again—­I mayn’t be here when you come home, and I mean it.’

‘Oh, all right then.  Suppose I were to say that I won’t come home?’

‘I should be quite indifferent.’

‘O Dora!’

’I would.  I am weary of our continual quarrels.  I can bear this life no longer.’ (It was actually sunny as a summer sky.)

‘Why, it was only last night you said how happy we were.’

‘Yes, but I didn’t mean it.’

‘Didn’t mean it!  Don’t talk like that, or I shall lose myself completely.’

’You will lose your train if you don’t mind.  Don’t you think you had better go?’

’Can you really talk to me like that?—­me?—­O Dora, it is not you that is talking:  it is some devil in you.’

Then suddenly irritated beyond all control by her silly little set face, he would blurt out a sudden, ‘Oh, very well, then!’ and before she was aware of it, the door would have banged.  By the time William had reached the gate he would be half-way through with a deed of assignment in favour of his wife, who, now that he had really gone, would watch him covertly from the window with slowly thawing heart.

So the devils would begin their dance:  for it was by no means ended.  Of course, William would come home as usual; and yet, though the sound of his footstep was the one sound she had listened for all day, Dora would immediately begin to petrify again, and when he would approach her with open arms, asking her to forgive and forget the morning, she would demur just long enough to set him alight again.  Heaven, how the devils would dance then!  And the night would usually end with them lying sleepless in distant beds.