"That's her native modesty. And there are some things one doesn't talk about, you know—except to one's nearest and dearest."
"Who can be nearer than we?" demanded Mrs. Rogerson, caressing her niece.
"Oh, I don't know," he drawled carelessly. "There's nothing in being mere relatives. I don't tell things to my relatives, and—a—you have not been so very intimate, you know—at least, not since I've known her."
An uncomfortable pause was broken by a protest from Alice, who was given to the saying of things that were better left unsaid. "I'm sure, never—until the tea-room——"
The mention of that bone of strife brought angry blushes to the family cheek, and glares which stopped her from going further.
"Don't speak ill of the tea-room, if you please," he said. "It is the most admirable institution that I know. But for the tea-room I should not have found my pattern wife—should not have known half her good qualities."
Jenny's intimacy with him—years old since eight o'clock—made her fearless of what she said or did, and, as has been intimated before, she was a person of spirit, with a good deal of human nature in her. She moved to his side, laid her hand on his shoulder for a moment, and said, with an ineffable air of self-justification, "He is not ashamed of the tea-room."
"On the contrary, dear, I am proud of it," he responded quickly, touching the little hand.
"Nevertheless," proceeded Jenny, "I will give it up now. It has been a success—I have earned a great deal of money—but I will dispose of it when I go home."
"We needn't talk about these things now," said Anthony, with a slight frown.