"Improper?" she echoed, staring at him. "To send Robert a picture postcard?"
"Grossly. It simply isn't done."
"What? Not send Robert—but he'd like to see where we've got to."
"For heaven's sake don't talk about Robert," he exclaimed, getting up quickly; the idea of the picture postcard profoundly shocked him.
"Not talk about him?" she repeated, staring at him in astonishment. "But he's my husband."
"Exactly. That's what makes him so improper."
"What? Why, I thought husbands were just the very things that never could be improper."
"Ingeborg," he said, walking angrily up and down in front of her, "are you or are you not being taken care of on this—this holiday by me? Are you or are you not travelling with me?"
"Yes, I know. But I don't see why I shouldn't send Rob—"
"Well, then, if you don't see you must believe. You've just got to believe me when I tell you certain things are impossible."