It might be; but he would not be the one to waste it. He calmly ate his bread and margarine, and drank his tea.
"I do think it's too bad of you, Harry. You're wasting away," she protested in a half-broken voice, and added with still more emotion, daringly, defiantly: "And what's the use of a husband who doesn't eat enough, I should like to know?"
A fearful silence. Thunder seemed to rumble menacingly round the horizon; nature itself cowered. Henry blushed slightly, pulling at his beard. Then his voice, quiet, bland, soothing, sweet, inexorable:
"Up to thirty, eat as much as you can. After thirty, as much as you want. After fifty, as little as you can do with."
"But you aren't fifty!"
"No. But I eat as much as I want. I'm the only judge of how much I want. We're all different. My health is quite good."
"You're thinner."
"I was getting stout."
"I prefer you to be a bit stout—much. It's a good sign in a man."
"Question of taste," he said with a humorous, affectionate glance at her.