Zachariah, fond of sugar, was in the habit of taking it with his
fingers--a practice to which Mrs. Zachariah strongly objected, and
with some reason. It was dirty, and as his hands were none of the
whitest, the neighbouring lumps became soiled, and acquired a flavour
which did not add to their sweetness. She had told him of it a score
of times; but he did not amend, and seemed to think her particularity
rather a vice than a virtue. So it is that, as love gilds all
defects, lack of love sees nothing but defect in what is truly
estimable. Notwithstanding the sugar-tongs, Zachariah--excusable,
perhaps, this time, considering the warmth of the speech he was
making against the late war--pushed them aside, and helped himself
after the usual fashion. A cloud came over Mrs. Zachariah's face;
she compressed her lips in downright anger, pushed the tongs towards
him with a rattle, and trod on his foot at the same time. His
oration came to an end; he looked round, became confused, and was
suddenly silent; but the Major gallantly came to the rescue by
jumping up to prevent Mrs. Zachariah from moving in order to put more
water on the tea.

"Excuse me, pray;" but as he had risen somewhat suddenly to reach the
kettle, he caught the table-cloth on his knee, and in a moment his
cup and saucer and the plate were on the floor in twenty pieces, and
the tea running all over the carpet. Zachariah looked at his wife,
and expected to see her half frantic. But no; though it was her best
china, she stopped the Major's apologies, and assured him, with
something almost like laughter, that it was not of the slightest
consequence. "Tea doesn't stain; I hope it has not gone on your
coat;" and producing a duster from the cupboard, the evil, save the
loss of the crockery, was remedied in a couple of minutes.