Sir Justin grimly pursed his lips, but his silence was more ominous than speech. In fact, the Baron's unfortunate effort at realism by the introduction of his window struck the first blow at his wife's implicit trust in him. She was evidently a little disconcerted, though she stoutly declared—
“He is evidently living in the suburbs, mamma.”
“Will you be so kind as to read on a little farther?” interposed Sir Justin in a grave voice.
“'The following reflections have I made. Russia is very large and cold, where people in furs are to be seen, and sledges. Bombs are thrown sometimes, and the marine is not good when it does drink too much.' Now, mamma, he must have seen these things or he wouldn't put them in his letter.”
The Baroness broke of somewhat hurriedly to make this comment, almost indeed as though she felt it to be necessary. As for her two comforters, they looked at one another with so much sorrow that their eyes gleamed and their lips appeared to smile.
“The Baron did not write that letter in Russia,” said Sir Justin decisively. “Furs are not worn in summer, nor do the inhabitants travel in sledges at this time of the year.”
“But—but he doesn't say he actually saw them,” pleaded the Baroness.
“Then that remark, just like the rest of his reflections, makes utter nonsense,” rejoined her mother.
“Is that all?” inquired Sir Justin.
“Almost all—all that is important,” faltered the Baroness.