Four-and-twenty years ago Toby Hall (I need not say that his proper
Christian name was Tobias) had married Miss Priscilla Bratt, then a
calm and self-reliant young woman of twenty-three, and Priscilla had
the house, together with a certain income, under the will of her
father. The marriage was not the result of burning passion on either
side. It was a union of two respectabilities, and it might have
succeeded as well as such unions generally do succeed, if Priscilla had
not too frequently mentioned the fact that the house they lived in was
hers. He knew that the house was hers. The whole world was perfectly
aware of the ownership of the house, and her references to the matter
amounted to a lack of tact. Several times Toby had indicated as much.
But Priscilla took no heed. She had the hide of an alligator herself
(though a personable girl), and she assumed that her husband's hide was
of similar stuff. This assumption was justifiable, except that in just
one spot the skin of Toby was tender. He really did not care to be
reminded that he was living under his wife's roof. The reiteration
settled on his nerves like a malady. And before a year had elapsed
Priscilla had contrived to remind him once too often. And one day he
put some things in a carpet-bag, and a hat on his head, and made for
the door. The house was antique, and the front-parlour gave directly on
to the street.
'Where be going?' Priscilla asked him.