“Merely habit, my dear,” pleaded Mr Chick.
“Nonsense! Habit!” returned his wife. “If you’re a rational being, don’t make such ridiculous excuses. Habit! If I was to get a habit (as you call it) of walking on the ceiling, like the flies, I should hear enough of it, I daresay.”
It appeared so probable that such a habit might be attended with some degree of notoriety, that Mr Chick didn’t venture to dispute the position.
“Bow-wow-wow!” repeated Mrs Chick with an emphasis of blighting contempt on the last syllable. “More like a professional singer with the hydrophobia, than a man in your station of life!”
“How’s the Baby, Loo?” asked Mr Chick: to change the subject.
“What Baby do you mean?” answered Mrs Chick.
“The poor bereaved little baby,” said Mr Chick. “I don’t know of any other, my dear.”
“You don’t know of any other,” retorted Mrs Chick. “More shame for you, I was going to say.”
Mr Chick looked astonished.
“I am sure the morning I have had, with that dining-room downstairs, one mass of babies, no one in their senses would believe.”