married and that is the great essential thing. . . . (Ethel, my dear, just put your husband's hat and stick behind the door.) And you, sir, are so good as to disapprove of the way in which I earn my living?"
"Well," said Lewisham. "Yes—I'm bound to say I do."
"You are really not bound to say it. The modesty of inexperience would excuse you."
"Yes, but it isn't right—it isn't straight."
"Dogma," said Chaffery. "Dogma!"
"What do you mean by dogma?" asked Lewisham.
"I mean, dogma. But we must argue this out in comfort. It is our supper hour, and I'm not the man to fight against accomplished facts. We have intermarried. There it is. You must stop to supper—and you and I must thresh these things out. We've involved ourselves with each other and we've got to make the best of it. Your wife and mine will spread the board, and we will go on talking. Why not sit in that chair instead of leaning on the back? This is a home—domus—not a debating society—humble in spite of my manifest frauds. . . . That's better. And in the first place I hope—I do so hope"—Chaffery was suddenly very impressive—"that you're not a Dissenter."
"Eh!" said Lewisham, and then, "No! I am not a Dissenter."
