He was away a long time--so long that the half-penitent Mrs. Hatchard was
beginning to think of giving first aid to the wounded. Then she heard
him coming slowly back along the passage. He entered the room, drying
his wet hair on a hand-kerchief.

"I--I hope I didn't hurt you--much?" said his wife.

Mr. Hatchard drew himself up and regarded her with lofty indignation.

"You might have killed me," he said at last, in thrilling tones. "Then
what would you have done?"

"Swept up the pieces, and said you came home injured and died in my
arms," said Mrs. Hatchard, glibly. "I don't want to be unfeeling, but
you'd try the temper of a saint. I'm sure I wonder I haven't done it
before. Why I married a stingy man I don't know."

"Why I married at all I don't know," said her husband, in a deep voice.

"We were both fools," said Mrs. Hatchard, in a resigned voice; "that's
what it was. However, it can't be helped now."

"Some men would go and leave you," said Mr. Hatchard.

"Well, go," said his wife, bridling. "I don't want you."

"Don't talk nonsense," said the other.

"It ain't nonsense," said Mrs. Hatchard. "If you want to go, go.
I don't want to keep you."