"I believe you have read it," the Major spoke up, still slyly shaking himself.
"Read it! Why, John, I have eaten it. I gad, sir—Pardon me, ma'am." With a nod she pronounced her forgiveness. The slip was but a pretense, foisted to change the talk to suit his purpose. "Ah," said he, "I have not yet weeded out all my idle words, and it grieves me when I am surprised by the recurrence of one which must be detestable; but, ma'am, I try hard, and there is always merit in a sincere trial."
"Yes, in a sincere trial," she agreed.
"Yes, ma'am; and—now there's John laughing at me fit to kill himself; and bless me, ma'am, you are laughing, too. Am I never to be taken seriously? Are you thus to titter true reformation out of countenance? But I like it. But we are never tired of a man so long as we can laugh at him; we may cry ourselves to sleep, but who laughs himself to slumber? Ma'am, are you going to leave us?" he asked, seeing that Mrs. Cranceford was on her feet. "But of course you have duties to look after, even though you might not be glad to escape an old man's gabble. I call it gabble, but I know it to be wisdom. But I beg pardon for seeming vanity."
A dignified smile was the only reply she made, but in the smile was legible the progress his efforts were making.
"John," he said, when she was gone, "that sort of a woman would have made a man of me."
"But perhaps that sort of a woman wouldn't have undertaken the job," the Major replied.
"Slow, John; but I guess you're right."
"I think so. Women may be persistent, but they are generally quick to recognize the impossible."
"Easy. But again I guess you're right. I gad, when the teachings of a man's mother leave him unfinished there isn't a great deal of encouragement for the wife. A man looks upon his wife as a part of himself, and a man will lie even to himself, John."