was perfectly loverly, anyhow, and he was making such a lot of money
every day, and, oh, he made the wheels out of potato, too, as round as
could be he cut it, and he gave every cent of it to his grandmother and
she loved him as much as she did 'Stashie, and wasn't it good to have
'Stashie back, and--"

Paul frowned silently over his pie.

"Come, dear; it's seven o'clock and bedtime," said Lydia, leading the
little girl away.

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