“You forget,” rejoined my wife icily, “that dear Lady Agatha is our guest.”
Miss Sophia sniffed, and was silent.
“Besides,” continued Marian, “what can you possibly have against her?”
“Marian,” said Miss Sophia, “will you answer me one question?”
“Perhaps, Cousin Sophia.”
“Cousin Marian, where, I ask you, where is Sir Arthur Pelham?”
“Why, how should I know, Cousin Sophia?” My wife was genuinely puzzled by the question, and so was I.
“Exactly!” And Miss Sophia's voice was acid. “How should you know? I imagine it is a point upon which Lady Agatha Pelham, under the circumstances, has not been very communicative.”
“But, Cousin Sophia——” I began.
She interrupted me. “Cousin Henry,” she said, “do you mean to say that you approve of these goings-on in your house? The idea of a married w
