"No. Of course there isn't. But I don't like——"
"I say," he interrupted her again. "I tore the seat of my grey trousers on Saturday. I wish you'd just mend it—now. It won't show, anyhow. You can do it in a minute or two."
"You never told me."
The fact was he seldom did tell her anything until he had to tell her. And his extraordinary gift for letting things slide was quite unimpaired by the influence of marriage. Her face was still close to his.
"You never told me," she repeated. Then she rose and slipped an old mantle over her night-dress.
"Oh, Harry," she cried, near the window, examining the trousers, "I can't possibly mend this now. It will take me half the morning. You must put on your blue trousers."
"To go to an auction? No. I can't do that. You'll manage it well enough."
"But you've got seven pairs of them, and six quite new!"
Years ago he had bought a job lot of blue suits, which fitted him admirably, for a song. Yes, for a song! At the present rate of usage of suits some of them would go down unworn to his heirs. He had had similar luck with a parcel of flannel shirts. On the other hand, the expensiveness and the mortality of socks worried him considerably.
"I don't think I'll wear the blue," he insisted blandly. "They're too good, those blue ones are."