One or two of the papers noted "a laugh" in brackets, and another,
which was notorious for the carelessness of its political news,
mentioned "laughter." Things often begin in that way.
"Arlington made a joke in the House last night," said Eleanor
Stringham to her mother; "in all the years we've been married
neither of us has made jokes, and I don't like it now. I'm afraid
it's the beginning of the rift in the lute."
"What lute?" said her mother.
"It's a quotation," said Eleanor.
To say that anything was a quotation was an excellent method, in
Eleanor's eyes, for withdrawing it from discussion, just as you
could always defend indifferent lamb late in the season by saying
"It's mutton."
And, of course, Arlington Stringham continued to tread the thorny
path of conscious humour into which Fate had beckoned him.
"The country's looking very green, but, after all, that's what
it's there for," he remarked to his wife two days later.
"That's very modern, and I dare say very clever, but I'm afraid
it's wasted on me," she observed coldly. If she had known how
much effort it had cost him to make the remark she might have
greeted it in a kinder spirit.
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