The shibboleth declared any criticism of another to be uncharitable at best, disloyal at worst. Unthinkable, to criticize one's husband.
Lily sought valiantly to ignore that which certain perceptions in her registered almost automatically.
She loved Nicholas, therefore she must see Nicholas as perfect.
The effort, in the course of time, became considerable, and very wearying.
She lived in a constant searching of spirit, fond of Nicholas and grateful to him when he petted her, touched by his many thoughtfulnesses and frequent gifts, intensely desirous of believing that she loved him, and irritated almost—although never quite—to the point of protesting aloud when he sang out of tune.
Nicholas sang very often, from exuberance of spirits, and it was almost always out of tune.
He had a singular faculty for remembering the words of popular musical-comedy songs, and no ability at all to retain the simplest of airs correctly.
"I say, Lily, that was a catchy sort of thing we heard last night."
"Oh yes, I know."
Lily spoke hurriedly, trying to escape from the conviction that she was in dread lest Nicholas should attempt to reproduce the tune that he had liked.