"
"Ah," murmured Lethbury with relish, "that's Aunt Sophronia's, isn't
it?"
Most of his wife's opinions were heirlooms, and he took a quaint
pleasure in tracing their descent. She was proud of their age, and
saw no reason for discarding them while they were still serviceable.
Some, of course, were so fine that she kept them for state
occasions, like her great-grandmother's Crown Derby; but from the
lady known as Aunt Sophronia she had inherited a stout set of
every-day prejudices that were practically as good as new; whereas
her husband's, as she noticed, were always having to be replaced. In
the early days she had fancied there might be a certain satisfaction
in taxing him with the fact; but she had long since been silenced by
the reply: "My dear, I'm not a rich man, but I never use an opinion
twice if I can help it."
She was reduced, therefore, to dwelling on his moral deficiencies;
and one of the most obvious of these was his refusal to take things
seriously. On this occasion, however, some ulterior purpose kept her
from taking up his taunt.
"I'm not in the least ashamed!" she repeated, with the air of
shaking a banner to the wind; but the domestic atmosphere being
calm, the banner drooped unheroically.
"That," said Lethbury judicially, "encourages me to infer that you
ought to be, and that, consequently, you've been giving yourself the
unusual pleasure of doing something I shouldn't approve of."
She met this with an almost solemn directness.
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