Mr.Pendleton's stomach resented his own rash deglutition of these dainties, and in consequence he was suffering too much with acute indigestion to think of the compensation he would gain at next year's Academy by standing with a bragging knowing air before pictures of the Cornish coast, expatiating to his bored acquaintances (who had never been to Cornwall) on their lack of merit compared with the real thing.

Like most husbands, Mr.Pendleton had been able to reach the conclusion that the real cause of his bodily and mental discomfort was his wife, so he maintained a sulky silence behind the pages of his newspaper.
With that lack of ceremony which the familiarity of marriage engenders in the female breast, his wife leant across the table and plucked the paper from his hand.
"Listen to me, Joseph," she said, "I want to talk to you." Lacking the newspaper screen, Mr.Pendleton's rebellious tendencies instantly evaporated beneath his wife's searching eye.
"Yes, my dear," he replied meekly.

"What about ?" "About Sisily.

Did you notice that she did not speak a word during dinner ?" "Perhaps she was overcome with grief, my dear." "Nonsense! Grief does not make a woman speechless.

She's one of the dumb sort of girls.