"Two," answered he. "I am afraid I am self-indulgent in my tea, but then I very seldom take it."
"So small an indulgence," she said, handing him his cup, "does not seem to me to indicate any great moral laxity."
"It is the principle of the thing," Philip returned, smiling because she smiled.
Mrs. Fenton shook her head.
"Come," she said, "this is a good time for me to say something that has been in my mind for a long time. You may think that it isn't my affair, but I can't help saying that it seems to me you have allowed yourself to get into a frame of mind that is rather—well, that isn't entirely healthy. I hope you don't think me too presuming."
"You could not be," was his reply; "but I do not understand what you mean."
She had grown graver, and leaned back in her chair with downcast eyes.
"I hardly know how to say it," she began slowly, "but you seem to me to be feeling rather morbidly about the virtue of personal discomfort. If you will pardon me, I can't think that you really believe it to be any merit in the sight of heaven that a man should make himself needlessly uncomfortable."
"But if the mortification of the flesh helps us to"—
She put up her hand and interrupted him.