Mr. Lammle falls silent again, and they walk as before. Mrs. Lammle opens her nostrils and bites her underlip; Mr. Lammle takes his gingerous whiskers in his left hand, and, bringing them together, frowns furtively at his beloved, out of a thick gingerous bush.
“Do I mean to say!” Mrs. Lammle after a time repeats, with indignation. “Putting it on me! The unmanly disingenuousness!”
Mr. Lammle stops, releases his whiskers, and looks at her. “The what?”
Mrs. Lammle haughtily replies, without stopping, and without looking back. “The meanness.”
He is at her side again in a pace or two, and he retorts, “That is not what you said. You said disingenuousness.”
“What if I did?”
“There is no ‘if’ in the case. You did.”
“I did, then. And what of it?”
“What of it?” says Mr. Lammle. “Have you the face to utter the word to me?”
“The face, too!” replied Mrs. Lammle, staring at him with cold scorn. “Pray, how dare you, sir, utter the word to me?”
“I never did.”
As this happens to be true, Mrs. Lammle is thrown on the feminine resource of saying, “I don’t care what you uttered or did not utter.”
After a little more walking and a little more silence, Mr. Lammle breaks the latter.