THE BETTER SORT
stillness, while the wife's little cry rang out. "But wasn't there———?"
"There was somebody," said Gedge, against the doorpost. "But They've killed Him. And, dead as He is, They keep it up, They do it over again, They kill Him every day."
He was aware of saying this so grimly—more grimly than he wished—that his companions exchanged a glance and even perhaps looked as if they felt him extravagant. That was the way, really, Isabel had warned him all the others would be looking if he should talk to Them as he talked to her. He liked, however, for that matter, to hear how he should sound when pronounced incapable through deterioration of the brain. "Then if there's no author, if there's nothing to be said but that there isn't anybody," the young woman smilingly asked, "why in the world should there be a house?"
"There shouldn't," said Morris Gedge.
Decidedly, yes, he affected the young man. "Oh, I don't say, mind you, that you should pull it down!"
"Then where would you go?" their companion sweetly inquired.
"That's what my wife asks," Gedge replied.
"Then keep it up, keep it up!" And the husband held out his hand.
"That's what my wife says," Gedge went on as he shook it.
The young woman, charming creature, emulated the other visitor; she offered their remarkable friend her handshake. "Then mind your wife."
The poor man faced her gravely. "I would if she were such a wife as you!"
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