“It must be because Di has such a vivid imagination,” continued her sister musingly. “She sees what he might have been, what he probably was meant to be——”
“And what he would still be,” put in Jellaby, “if only he would allow his nice wife to influence him a little.”
“But John,” thought I, “in that is right. Let us be fair and admit his good sides. A wife should never, under any circumstances, be allowed allowed——”
Then, suddenly struck by the point of view, by the feminine idea (Socialists have the minds of women) of a man’s being restored to what he was primarily intended to be when he issued newly-made (as poets and parsons would say) from the hands of his Maker through the manipulations of Mrs. Menzies-Legh, my sense of humour played me a nasty trick (for I would have liked to have heard more) and I found myself bursting into a loud chuckle.
“What’s that?” exclaimed Jellaby, jumping up.
He soon saw what it was, for I immediately put my head round the edge of the pillar.
They both stared at me in a strange alarm.
“Pray do not suppose,” I said, smiling reassuringly, “that I am a ghost.”
They stared without a word.
“You look as though I might be.”