"I never have," said Charlie in rather a low voice.
"We ought to give a little subscription to the Parish Magazine," she continued. "The Vicar is calling round for extra subscriptions."
Charlie nodded. He was wishing he knew the football results in the evening paper.
His wife served a rice shape. She doled out jam with a careful hand and a measuring eye. "We ought to see about the garden gate," she said.
"I'll mend it on Saturday," Charlie replied.
"I was thinking," she said presently, "that we ought to ask Uncle Henry and Aunt round soon. They will be expecting it."
Charlie put his spoon and fork together, hesitated and then replied slowly: "Life is nothing but 'ought.' 'Ought' to do this: 'Ought' to do that."
His wife looked at him, astonished. He could see that she was grieved—or rather, aggrieved—at his glimmer of anarchy.
"Of course," she explained at last. "People can't have what they like. There's one's duty to do. Life isn't for enjoyment, Charlie. It's given to us ... it is given to us...."
As she paused to crystallise an idea, Charlie cut in.