"The fact is, that he's suffering from a swollen head," remarked the curate, who used slang as a proof of manliness.
"There, Archibald!" cried the lady, triumphantly. "What did I tell you?"
"Mrs. Jackson thought he was conceited."
"I don't think it; I'm sure of it. He's odiously conceited. All the time I was talking to him I felt he considered himself superior to me. No nice-minded man would have refused our offer to say a short prayer on his behalf during morning service."
"Those army men always have a very good opinion of themselves," said Mr. Dryland, taking advantage of his seat opposite a looking-glass to arrange his hair.
He spoke in such a round, full voice that his shortest words carried a sort of polysyllabic weight.
"I can't see what he has done to be so proud of," said Mrs. Jackson. "Anyone would have done the same in his position. I'm sure it's no more heroic than what clergymen do every day of their lives, without making the least fuss about it."
"They say that true courage is always modest," answered Mr. Dryland.
The remark was not very apposite, but sounded damaging.
"I didn't like the way he had when he came to tea here—as if he were dreadfully bored. I'm sure he's not so clever as all that."