“I rather like them myself,” said I, and, rising, I bowed to the portrait of Countess Amelia.
My brother’s wife uttered an exclamation of impatience.
“I wish you’d take that picture away, Robert,” said she.
“My dear!” he cried.
“Good heavens!” I added.
“Then it might be forgotten,” she continued.
“Hardly—with Rudolf about,” said Robert, shaking his head.
“Why should it be forgotten?” I asked.
“Rudolf!” exclaimed my brother’s wife, blushing very prettily.
I laughed, and went on with my egg. At least I had shelved the question of what (if anything) I ought to do. And, by way of closing the discussion—and also, I must admit, of exasperating my strict little sister-in-law a trifle more—I observed: