The Doctor bent over the fire, stirred it up and replied, “Well, not in particular.”
“Philandering,” sniffed Mrs. Nesbit.
“Again?” returned the Doctor.
“No,” snapped Mrs. Nesbit–“as usual!”
The Doctor had no opinion to express; one of the family specters was engaging his attention at the moment. Presently his wife put down her paper and sat as one wrestling with an impulse. The specter on her side of the hearth was trying to keep her lips sealed. They sat while the mantel clock ticked off five minutes.
“What are you thinking?” the Doctor asked.
“I’m thinking of Dan Sands,” replied the wife with some emotion in her voice.
The foot tap of Mrs. Nesbit became audible. She shook her head with some force and exclaimed: “O Jim, wouldn’t I like to have that man–just for one day.”
“I’ve noticed,” cut in the Doctor, “regarding such propositions from the gentler sex, that the Lord generally tempers the wind to the shorn lamb.”
“The shorn lamb–the shorn lamb,” retorted Mrs. Nesbit. “The shorn tom-cat! I’d like to shear him.” Wherewith she rose and putting out the light led the Doctor to the stairs.