With this preamble, Mistress Ulrica opened the floodgates of her
ill-humor, to which on occasions like the present especially she gave
perfect freedom.

"An automaton, my dear!"

"A post, a perfect post. You do not even turn your head; just as though
the company of your wife and child was the most wearisome thing of your
life."

But dearest Ulrique Eugenie, I must keep watch for a bite. If I turn
around--"

"You would not lose the sense of feeling if you should; but you hope, I
suppose, that persons on the shore will think you master of the boat.
Simpleton! What folly to think that!"

"Dear Ulrique Eugenie, shall I ask if you have spared my nephew your
ill-humor that you may vent it on me. It is my opinion--"

"What is your opinion, sir?"

"O nothing further than that I am sufficiently burdened with your
natural bad-temper already, without having it increased by the aid of
another."

"Burdened!--ill-humor--bad temper!--is the man mad? Do you thus speak to
me, your wedded wife, who bears your stupid indifference; your want of
tenderness and love with angelic forbearance? O, this is too much! It is
shameful! It is undeserved!"