"Why, my dear, you know a lady's parlor is her own ground."
"Not a married lady's parlor, I imagine. I believe it is at least equally her husband's, as he expects to pass a good portion of his time there."
"But I don't think you ought to insist on an arrangement that really is disagreeable to me," says the lady.
And now Hero's cheeks flush, and the spirit burns within, as she says,--
"Well, if you insist upon it, I suppose it must be as you say; but I shall never take any pleasure in playing on it"; and Hero sweeps from the apartment, leaving the victor very unhappy in his conquest.
He rushes after her, and finds her up-stairs, sitting disconsolate and weeping on a packing-box.
"Now, Hero, how silly! Do have it your own way. I'll give it up."
"No,--let it be as you say. I forgot that it was a wife's duty to submit."
"Nonsense, Hero! Do talk like a rational woman. Don't let us quarrel like children."
"But it's so evident that I was in the right."
"My dear, I cannot concede that you were in the right; but I am willing it should be as you say."
"Now I perfectly wonder, Leander, that you don't see how awkward your way is. It would make me nervous every time I came into the room, and it would be so dark in that corner that I never could see the notes."
"And I wonder, Hero, that a woman of your taste don't see how shutting up that bow-window spoils the parlor. It's the very prettiest feature of the room."
And so round and round they go, stating and restating their arguments, both getting more and more nervous and combative, both declaring themselves perfectly ready to yield the point as an oppressive exaction, but to do battle for their own opinion as right and reason,--the animal instinct of self-will meanwhile rising and rising and growing stronger and stronger on both sides. But meanwhile in the heat of argument some side-issues and personal reflections fly out like splinters in the shivering of lances. He tells her, in his heat, that her notions are formed from deference to models in fashionable life, and that she has no idea of adaptation,--and she tells him that he is domineering, and dictatorial, and wanting to have everything his own way; and in fine, this battle is fought off and on through the day, with occasional armistices of kisses and makings-up,--treacherous truces, which are all broken up by the fatal words, "My dear, after all, you must admit _I_ was in the right," which of course is the signal to fight the whole battle over again.