“I didn’t. It’s my cigarettes.”
“Well, why then Anna as a factor in this discussion?”
“I’m coming to that. Speaking of names—”
“We are not speaking of names any more. Pray be coherent.”
“We are—at least I am. Speaking of names, do you know what she calls me? She calls me ‘Miss Fleeceyou,’ like that.”
“In view of the salary Anna is drawing down I’d call that a touch of subtle irony,” stated Mr. Bugbee. “But I see no reason why she should address me as ‘Mr. Clammy.’ I’m not clammy—I leave it to any impartial judge. I’ll not start complaining yet, though. I have a foreboding of worse things to follow. I foresee that when the feeling of formality wears off and we get on an easier social footing she’ll call me ‘Clam.’ I decline to be just plain Clam to Anna or anybody else. If I’ve got to be a clam I’m going to be a fancy one.”
“You drift about so! What I’ve been trying for the last five minutes to tell you was that Anna has been confiding to me that some of the older inhabitants are taking exception to us—to me, rather. It seems they’ve already found out that I smoke cigarettes. They regard that as sinful or at least highly improper. There’s been talk. She told me so.”
“I wonder how they learned of your secret vice!” mused Mr. Bugbee. “It can’t be that Anna is a gossip—heaven forbid! Have you been detected in any other shameful practice?”
“Not exactly detected—but, well, criticized. She tells me that certain persons, including one of the two ministers—the Reverend Mr. Peters is the one—have been discussing my costume.” She glanced down at her trim riding-breeches and her smart high-laced boots, which with her soft flannel shirt gave her the look of a graceful, good-looking boy. “And I thought I was dressed so appropriately!”
“I believe there is still a prejudice in certain remote districts against the human female leg,” said her husband. “Just what fault do the merry villagers find with your get-up?”