"Haven't you discovered, Stuckley, that our wives are always right?"
"Oh, I say!" groaned Sir Gordon, dismayed at this cowardly going over to the enemy.
"There is no such thing as an Anglo-Saxon race."
"What?"
"And there's no such thing as a pure type of man. He simply doesn't exist. Finot says: 'All human beings are cross-breeds,'" and the doctor sat down at a small desk set into a bookcase, and began to write a prescription.
"Race" was one of Gordon's strong points. He had all the conviction of the profound amateur. He was an example of a little learning and its consequences.
"You mean to say," he asked with pompous incredulity, "that there is nothing in dolichocephalic superiority?" Having delivered this without a sign of distress he looked about, greatly pleased with himself.
"Dolly who?" asked Winifred. "Sir George, is that a real word, or just aggravated assault and battery?"
"Don't be alarmed, Lady Stuckley, it only means fair-haired people with narrow skulls."
"And so blonds are the elect, are they?" she said. "Now I know the scientific explanation for the popularity of peroxide of hydrogen."