turnip-field.

The light was in the ground floor; as one window was brightly
illuminated and two others more faintly, it might be supposed that there
was a single lamp in one corner of a large apartment; and a certain
tremulousness and temporary dwindling showed that a live fire
contributed to the effect. The sound of a voice now became audible; and
the trespassers paused to listen. It was pitched in a high, angry key,
but had still a good, full, and masculine note in it. The utterance was
voluble, too voluble even to be quite distinct; a stream of words,
rising and falling, with ever and again a phrase thrown out by itself,
as if the speaker reckoned on its virtue.

Suddenly another voice joined in. This time it was a woman's; and if the
man were angry, the woman was incensed to the degree of fury. There was
that absolutely blank composure known to suffering males; that
colourless unnatural speech which shows a spirit accurately balanced
between homicide and hysterics; the tone in which the best of women
sometimes utter words worse than death to those most dear to them. If
Abstract Bones-and-Sepulchre were to be endowed with the gift of speech,
thus, and not otherwise, would it discourse. Leon was a brave man, and I
fear he was somewhat sceptically given (he had been educated in a
Papistical country), but the habit of childhood prevailed, and he
crossed himself devoutly. He had met several women in his career. It was
obvious that his instinct had not deceived him, for the male voice broke
forth instantly in a towering passion.

The undergraduate, who had not understood the significance of the
woman's contribution, pricked up his ears at the change upon the man.

"There's going to be a free fight," he opined.

There was another retort from the woman, still calm, but a little
higher.

"Hysterics?" asked Leon of his wife. "Is that the stage direction?"

"How should I know?" returned Elvira, somewhat tartly.

"Oh, woman, woman!" said Leon, beginning to open the guitar-case. "It is
one of the burdens of my life, Monsieur Stubbs; they support each other;
they always pretend there is no system; they say it's nature. Even
Madame Berthelini, who is a dramatic artist!"

"You are heartless, Leon," said Elvira; "that woman is in trouble."

"And the man, my angel?" inquired Berthelini, passing the ribbon of his
guitar. "And the man, _m'amour_?"

"He is a man," she answered.

"You hear that?" said Leon to Stubbs. "It