"Not a bit of it. Dick and I couldn't quarrel any more than you and Polly could. Perhaps as we grow older our ideals differ. Polly's rather anthropological in her talks, isn't she?" "A trifle," said Mrs. Idiot. "And musical and literary and scientific." "While you?" queried the Idiot. [Illustration: "'WELL, I'M FOND OF GOLF'"] "Well, I'm fond of golf and--ah--well--" "Golf again," laughed the Idiot. "I guess that's it, Bess. When a woman wants to talk about the origin of the species and has to hear about a splendid putt, and her observations upon the sonata are invariably interrupted by animadversions upon the morals of caddies, and her criticisms of Browning end in a discussion of the St. Andrew's Rules, she's apt to shy off into a more congenial atmosphere, don't you think?" "I am sure," retorted Mrs. Idiot, "that while I admit I am more interested in golf than in anything else outside of you and the children, I can and do talk sometimes of other things than caddies, and beautiful drives, and stymies. You are very much mistaken if you think otherwise." "That is very true, my dear," said the Idiot. "And nobody knows it better than I do. I've heard you talk charmingly about lots of things besides stymies, and foozles, and putts, and drives, but you don't know anything about the men of the Stone Age, and you couldn't tell the difference between a sonata and a fugue any more than I. Furthermore, you have no patience with Browning, so that when Polly Dawkins asks if you like _Sordello_, you are more likely than not to say that you never ate any, but on the whole for small fish prefer whitebait." Mrs. Idiot laughed. "No, indeed," she replied. "I'd fall back on golf if Polly mentioned _Sordello_ to me. You may remember that you sent it to me when we were engaged, and I loved you so much--then--that I read it. If I hadn't loved you I couldn't have done it." "Well," smiled the Idiot, "what did you think of it?" "I think Browning had a good lie, but he foozled," said Mrs. Idiot, with her eyes atwinkle, and the Idiot subsided for at least ten seconds. "I wish you'd say that to Polly some time," he observed. "It's so very true, and put with an originality which cannot but appeal to the most hardened of literary women." "I will if I ever get the chance," said Mrs. Idiot. "Suppose we make the chance?" suggested the Idiot. "Let's go down there and call to-night. I'll work the conversation up so that you can get that off as an impromptu." [Illustration: "AN ANTHROPOLOGICAL TEA"]