"I don't know that I think it is. However, don't let's begin an argument before supper. Where's Beatrice?"
"She bought a new hat yesterday and has gone to demonstrate its becomingness to God and woman."
"I suppose you mean she's gone to church? I went to church myself this morning."
"What for? Copy?"
"No, no, no. I took George's children."
"You don't mean to say that you've got them with you?"
John nodded, and his brother exploded with an uproarious laugh.
"Well, I was fool enough to marry before I was thirty," he bellowed. "But at any rate I wasn't fool enough to have any children. So you're going to sup with us. I ought to warn you it's cold mutton to-night."
"Really? Capital! There's nothing I like better than cold mutton."
"Upon my soul, Johnnie, I'll say this for you. You may write stale romantic plays about the past, but you manage to keep plenty of romantic sauce for the present. Yes, you're a born optimist. Look at your skin—pink as a baby's. Look at mine—yellow as a horse's tooth. Have you heard my new name for your habit of mind? Rosification. Rather good, eh? And you can rosify anything from Lucretia Borgia to cold mutton. Now don't look angry with me, Johnnie; you must rosify my ill-humor. With so many roses you can't expect not to have a few thorns as well, and I'm one of them. No, seriously, I congratulate you on your success. And I always try to remember that you write with your tongue in your cheek."