"In short," he summed up, "you've been doing something that you're thoroughly ashamed of."
To his surprise she retorted: "I don't see why I should be ashamed of it!"
Lethbury leaned back with a smile of enjoyment. When there was nothing better going he always liked to listen to her explanations.
"Well—?" he said.
She was becoming breathless and ejaculatory. "Of course you'll laugh—you laugh at everything!"
"That rather blunts the point of my derision, doesn't it?" he interjected; but she rushed on without noticing:
"It's so easy to laugh at things."
"Ah," murmured Lethbury with relish, "that's Aunt Sophronia's, isn't it?"
Most of his wife's opinions were heirlooms, and he took a quaint pleasure in tracing their descent. She was proud of their age, and saw no reason for discarding them while they were still serviceable. Some, of course, were so fine that she kept them for state occasions, like her great-grandmother's Crown Derby; but from the lady known as Aunt Sophronia she had inherited a stout set of every-day prejudices that were practically as good as new; whereas her husband's, as she noticed, were always having to be replaced. In the early days she had fancied there might be a certain satisfaction in taxing him with the fact; but she had long since been silenced by the reply: "My dear, I'm not a rich man, but I never use an opinion twice if I can help it."
She was reduced, therefore, to dwelling on his moral deficiencies; and one of the most obvious of these was his refusal to take things seriously. On this occasion, however, some ulterior purpose kept her from taking up his taunt.