'Mouldy,' he observed. 'Weevils in them, too. Sorry. Does it matter much?'
'Nothing matters,' answered the lady, sweet and low. 'But why do you put them away if they are bad? It would be better to burn them and be done with it.'
He was taking the box back to the cupboard.
'I suppose you're right,' he said reluctantly. 'But it always seems wicked to burn bread, doesn't it?'
'Not when it's weevilly,' replied the thoroughbred, after sipping the hot tea.
He emptied the contents of the tin upon the coal fire, and the room presently began to smell of mouldy toast.
'Besides,' he said, 'it's cruel to burn weevils, I suppose. If I'd thought of that, I'd have left them alone. It's too late now. They're done for, poor beasts! I'm sorry. I don't like to kill things.'
He stared thoughtfully at the already charred remains of the holocaust, and shook his head a little. The lady sipped her tea and looked at him quietly, perhaps affectionately, but he did not see her.
'You think I'm rather silly sometimes, don't you?' he asked, still gazing at the fire.
'No,' she answered at once. 'It's never silly to be kind, even to weevils.'