“Duncan,” said Lady Fenimore, severely, “don’t be flippant.”

Heaven knows I was in no flippant mood; but it was worth a foolish jest to bring a smile to Sir Anthony’s face.  Also this grave, conscientious proposition had its humorous side.  It was so British.  It reminded me of the story of Swift, who, when Gay and Pope visited him and refused to sup, totted up the cost of the meal and insisted on their accepting half-a-crown apiece.  It reminded me too of the rugged old Lancashire commercial blood that was in him—­blood that only shewed itself on the rarest and greatest of occasions—­the blood of his grandfather, the Manchester cotton-spinner, who founded the fortunes of his house.  Sir Anthony knew less about cotton than he did about ballistics and had never sat at a desk in a business office for an hour in his life; but now and again the inherited instinct to put high impulses on a scrupulously honest commercial basis asserted itself in the quaintest of fashions.

“There’s some sense in what he says, Edith,” remarked Sir Anthony.  “It’s only vanity that prompted us to ear-mark this sum for something special.”

“Vanity!” cried Lady Fenimore.  “You weren’t by any chance thinking of advertising our gift or contribution or whatever you like to call it in the Daily Mail?”

“Heaven forbid, my dear,” Sir Anthony replied warmly; and he stood, his hands under his coat-tails and his gaitered legs apart, regarding her with the air of a cock-sparrow accused of murdering his young, or a sensitive jockey repudiating a suggestion of crooked riding.  “Heaven forbid!” he repeated.  “Such an idea never entered my head.”

“Then where does the vanity come in?” asked Lady Fenimore.

They had their little argument.  I lit a cigarette and let them argue.  In such cases, every married couple has its own queer and private and particular and idiosyncratic way of coming to an agreement.  The third party who tries to foist on it his own suggestion of a way is an imbecile.  The dispute on the point of vanity, charmingly conducted, ended by Sir Anthony saying triumphantly:—­

“Well, my dear, don’t you see I’m right?” and by his wife replying with a smile:—­

“No, darling, I don’t see at all.  But since you feel like that, there’s nothing more to be said.”

I was mildly enjoying myself.  Perhaps I’m a bit of a cynic.  I broke in.

“I don’t think it’s vanity to see that you get your money’s worth.  There’s lots of legitimate fun in spending twenty thousand pounds properly.  It’s too big to let other people manage or mis-manage.  Suppose you decided on motor-ambulances or hospital trains, for instance, it would be your duty to see that you got the best and most up-to-date ambulances or trains, with the least possible profits, to contractors and middle-men.”

“As far as that goes, I think I know my way about,” said Sir Anthony.

“Of course.  And as for publicity—­or the reverse, hiding your light under a bushel—­any fool can remain anonymous.”