"Well, anyhow, I intend to break the custom."
"So did I, but I had it all the same."
My uncle looked at me.
"You see," said I, "when a woman says you must do this or that—must have cake at a wedding, for instance—you must do it. It is not a case for argument. It is a kind of privilege they have—the categorical imperative. You will soon learn that."
Evidently the question was open. "But why do they say you must?"
"Other women tell them to. They would despise any one dreadfully who did not have a really big cake—from that shop."
"But why?"
"My dear uncle," said I, "you are going into matrimony. You do not show a proper spirit."
"The cake," said my uncle, "is only a type. There is this trousseau business again. Why should a woman who is going to marry require a complete outfit of that sort? It seems to suggest—well, pre-nuptial rags at least, George. Then the costume. Why should a sane healthy woman be covered up in white gauze like the confectionery in a shop window when the flies are about? And why——?"
He was going on in quite an aggressive tone. "There isn't a why," I said, "for any of it." This sort of talk always irritates a married man because it revives his own troubles. "It's just the rule. Surely, if a wife is worth having she is worth being ridiculous for? You ought to be jolly glad you don't have to wear a fool's cap and paint your nose red. 'More precious than rubies'——"