He abandoned the discussion. "Well, I leave it to you, partner. You're not to sit here mending shirts anyhow. I draw the line at that."
Sylvia's delicate chin became suddenly firm. "I never leave a thing unfinished," she said. "You will have to ride alone this evening."
"I refuse," said Burke.
She opened her eyes wide. "Really"—she began.
"Yes, really," he said. "Put the thing away! It's a sheer fad to mend it at all. I don't care what I wear, and I'm sure you don't."
"But I do," she protested. "You must be respectable."
"But I am respectable—whatever I wear," argued Burke. "It's my main characteristic."
His brown hand began to draw the garment in dispute away from her, but Sylvia held it tight.
Burke, don't—please—be tiresome! Every woman mends her husband's clothes if there is no one else to do it. I want to do it. There!"
"You don't like doing it!" he challenged.