His good lady came bustling in with a shiver. She restricted her own bathing operations to the decent privacy of a four by seven bathroom.
“You’ll catch your death of cold there, Julius,” she said. “Fancy sitting there from morning till night doing nothing!”
“I’m not doing nothing,” said Julius quietly. “I’m thinking.”
“Well, that’s what I call doing nothing,” said Mrs. Superbus, bustling round and laying the cloth.
She had an extraordinary appreciation of her husband’s qualities, admired him secretly, but felt that the smooth harmonies of matrimony might well be disturbed if she committed the error of showing her feelings.
“It’s beyond me how you puzzle these things out,” she said.
“It’s brains,” explained Julius.
“You get such ideas,” she said in despair. “I wonder you don’t go on the stage.”
It was her conviction that the stage was the ultimate goal of all genius; its greatest reward; its most natural line of development.
“This Double Dan is certainly a bit of a puzzle, though I’ve worked out bigger problems in my time, mother.”