"And I don't believe he has either," said Anna-Felicitas.
"So there was trouble, because he couldn't bear the idea of her laughing at him, and we had to confess."
"But that didn't make it any better for Aunt Alice."
"No, because then he said it was her fault anyhow for not keeping us stricter."
"So," said Anna-Felicitas, "after the house had been steeped in a sulphurous gloom for over a week, and we all felt as though we were being slowly and steadily gassed, we tried to make it up by writing a final one—a nice one—and leaving it on his plate at breakfast: Kiss your Wife. But instead of kissing her he—" She broke off, and then finished a little vaguely: "Oh well, he didn't."
"Still," remarked Anna-Rose, "it must be pleasant not to be kissed by a husband. Aunt Alice always wanted him to, strange to say, which is why we reminded him of it. He used to forget that more regularly than almost anything. And the people who lived in the house nearest us were just the opposite—the husband was for ever trying to kiss the person who was his wife, and she was for ever dodging him."
"Yes," said Anna-Felicitas. "Like the people on Keats's Grecian Urn."
"Yes," said Anna-Rose. "And that sort of husband, must be even worse.
"Oh, much worse," agreed Anna-Felicitas.
She looked round amiably at the three quiet figures in the chairs. "I shall refrain altogether from husbands," she said placidly. "I shall take something that doesn't kiss."