in her house, and tilt her nose as superciliously as her neighbour.
The condition of her own house gave her continual annoyance, where things were not only inconvenient but humiliating. Her bedstead, she was sure, was not decent enough to carry a corpse, and even an orphan bat who for seven generations had been without relatives would have scorned to accept an invitation within such dilapidated walls; while as for the furniture, why, it would have brought tears to the eyes of the most hardened of ascetics. It is impossible for a cowardly sex like man to argue against suck palpable exaggerations, so Baidyanath merely retired on to his veranda, and worked with redoubled energy at polishing his walking-sticks.
But the rampart of silence is not the surest means of self-defence. Sometimes the wife would break upon her husband at his work, and, without looking at him, say: ‘Please tell the milkman to stop delivering milk.’
At which Baidyanath, after his first shock of speechlessness, might possibly stammer out: ‘Milk? How can you get on if you stop the supply? What will the children drink?’
To this his wife would answer: ‘Rice water.’
