"Oh, you—if anybody. However, you knew before you married me, that is one comfort."
"Why do you speak to me like that, Tita?" A frown has settled on Rylton's forehead. It is all such abominably bad form. "You know how—how——"
"Ill-bred it is," supplies she quietly, gaily.
"It is intolerable," vehemently, turning away and walking towards the door.
"Ah, come back! Don't go—don't go!" cries she eagerly. She jumps out of her big chair and runs after him. She slips her hand through his arm, and swinging her little svelte body round, smiles up into his face mischievously. "What's the matter with you?" asks she.
"It is in such bad taste," says Rylton, mollified, however, in a measure in spite of himself. "You should consider how it hurts me. You should remember you are my wife."
"I do. That is why I think I can say to you what I can't say to anybody else," says Tita quietly. "However, never mind; sit down again and let us settle the question about our guests. Here's a sheet of paper," pushing it into his hands. "And here's a pencil—an awfully bad one, any way, but if you keep sticking it into your mouth it'll write. _I'm _tired of licking that pencil."
She is evidently hopeless! Rylton, after that first crushing thought, gives way, and, leaning back in his chair, roars with laughter.
"And am I to lick it now!" asks he.
"No, certainly not,". She is now evidently in high dudgeon. She puts the pencil back in her pocket, and stands staring at him with her angry little head somewhat lowered. "After all, you are right; I'm horrid!" says she.