“Everybody knows that women are a great deal better than men.”
“They must be,” said Dick. “Literature is full of statements to that effect.”
“And marriage is far more desirable than ‘glorious freedom’.”
“It is,” answered Dick. “So long as there are things to disagree about, marriage will not lose its savor.”
“You say that in a perfectly mean way, as though you did not really believe anything nice. But whether you believe it or not, I am going to ask you not to talk so any more,” Mrs. Percival went on with dignity, “because it sounds exactly like a criticism of me, and I think you owe it to me to treat me with respect. What must people think of me when you fling in—what do you call them—innuendoes like that around?”
Mr. Percival looked at his wife in silence; then he picked her up, chair and all, and whirled her around in front of a long pier glass.
“Do you see that?” he demanded.
Lena saw and dimpled.
“Now I propose,” Dick went on, “to carry you down stairs, just as you are! I shall then arouse the whole household by my shouts and gather them around you; and when every man jack of them is there, I shall say ‘Ladies and gentlemen, is it possible for a man whose wife looks like this to utter any serious accusation against femininity?’”
“Dick, don’t be silly,” said Lena, pouting with pleasure, and she glanced again at herself in the glass. “I am nice, am I not?”