“No, you won’t,” said his wife. “You’ll do it this afternoon. This morning we’re playing golf. Which reminds me—have you ordered a car?”
“I will if you like,” said Peregrine, rising. “I shouldn’t think it was necess——”
“Why argue?” said Mrs. Below grimly. “Why not be big-minded enough to admit your mistake? If there is one thing I despise more than another, it is a man or woman who deliberately sticks to their point when they know that they’re wrong. And why should I run the risk of having to walk because you won’t take the trouble to order a car? Of course it’s the old thing—lack of consideration. First, every possible obstacle is put in the way of my going to a dance just because you don’t want the bother of writing a note. Then my convenience is to be jeopardized. . . .” She raised her eyes to heaven and let the sentence go. “You ought to have known my father,” she continued piously. “With him my mother came first always. It never occurred to him to argue. She only had to . . .” She stopped there to peer violently at the floor. “What have you got on your feet?”
“My—buckskin shoes, dear,” said Peregrine.
“Rubber-soled?”
“Yes.”
Mrs. Below inspired vehemently, cast a reproachful glance skywards, as though to suggest that, while allowing and prepared to suffer the inscrutable authority of God, she expected it to be counted to her for righteousness, and set her teeth.
“Go and change,” she said shortly, using the tone of one who, tried beyond endurance, forgets that he is addressing a fellow-man. “I never thought I should have to dress you, but it seems I was wrong. We’re going to play golf, my darling—not tennis. Golf.”
“I—I know,” faltered Peregrine, “but——”
“That’s right,” said his wife. “Argue the point. Give me the lie. Where are you going?”