limited to dear Hector, and—as Portia says—God made him, so let him pass as a man.
"Hush, Euphemia," said Sophronia in an audible aside, and in a virtuous tone. She could not have made any remark less calculated to please me. It was evident they had been discussing us.
"My husband is a literary man and writes all day long," said I, with one of the serenest, most child-like and fancy-picture smiles I had ever conjured up. "I dislike to disturb him, you know. Men are such queer things, are they not?"
"Yes," laughed Sophronia girlishly.
"Indeed they are," simpered Euphemia, dropping a stitch as a punishment for her giddiness.
"Is your brother a literary man?" I asked boldly.
"Oh, no," said Sophronia, scornfully, "dear Hector is nicely established in the hop business—malt and hops, you know." (Evidently imagining that I might think he was a dancing master).
"He is taking a holiday just now. He has been working so hard. Dear Hector!"
