"Oh, for pity's sake don't be platitudinous!" she burst out. "It's almost as though I was listening to Anne talking."
"My wife!" he reminded her sharply.
"Oh, you are very loyal!" she retorted.
He was silent a moment, and then laughed, covering over his own pallor.
"It's only a sense of justice. A wife isn't responsible for the poor qualities of her husband's brains, is she?"
"She may be responsible for his becoming a sleek prig," she said cruelly, then, with a quick, almost girlish gesture of appeal: "Don't be angry, Major Tristram! The heat has disagreed with me mentally and physically. Let's talk of something else. Tell me something about your mother."
He looked at her, puzzled, and naïvely pleased.
"What shall I tell you about her?" he asked.
"Oh, I don't know—tell me if she is well and happy."
He bent down to stroke the dog at his feet, hiding his face.