"It's only vanity that prompted us to ear-mark this sum for
something special."

"Vanity!" cried Lady Fenimore. "You weren't by any chance thinking
of advertising our gift or contribution or whatever you like to
call it in the Daily Mail?"

"Heaven forbid, my dear," Sir Anthony replied warmly; and he
stood, his hands under his coat-tails and his gaitered legs
apart, regarding her with the air of a cock-sparrow accused of
murdering his young, or a sensitive jockey repudiating a
suggestion of crooked riding. "Heaven forbid!" he repeated. "Such
an idea never entered my head."

"Then where does the vanity come in?" asked Lady Fenimore.

They had their little argument. I lit a cigarette and let them
argue. In such cases, every married couple has its own queer and
private and particular and idiosyncratic way of coming to an
agreement. The third party who tries to foist on it his own
suggestion of a way is an imbecile. The dispute on the point of
vanity, charmingly conducted, ended by Sir Anthony saying
triumphantly:--

"Well, my dear, don't you see I'm right?" and by his wife replying
with a smile:--

"No, darling, I don't see at all. But since you feel like that,
there's nothing more to be said."