"But they were boys then," said Barbara, defending me maliciously, "and boys are so cruel."
"The boy is father to the man," remarked my stepmother, with venomous emphasis.
"Now, John," said Barbara, "what have you to say to it?"
My impulse was to reply that the story was false, but I checked myself in time, and simply said:
"Nothing. Either my memory or yours"—to my stepmother—"is at fault."
"You have a shocking memory, John," said Barbara. "Not your fault, my dear—you were born with it. We all forgive you, don't we, Mrs. Fordham—and you, too, Louis? It would be dreadful if we nursed every little grievance, and saved disagreeable things for future use against one another. Let us talk of something pleasant."
"You have the temper of an angel, Barbara," ejaculated Maxwell.
"It runs in our family," returned Barbara, casting up her eyes, "and we won't boast of it. Whether we are married or single, we don't lie on beds of roses."
By the time the dinner came to an end the inuendoes, the sly thrusts, the holding up of my wife as a martyr to my disparagement had become unbearable. The ladies retired to the drawing-room, and I refused to stop and drink with Louis and Maxwell. Strolling from the house I lit a cigar, and upon my return the guests were preparing to take their departure.
"Such a pleasant evening," said my stepmother. "I hope you will turn over a new leaf, John, and be kind to your wife. You have a treasure in her. You must come and dine with us, soon."