``How I abhorred pink teas and purple
pageants,'' he finished for her, with a frowning
smile. ``Oh, well, I stood it--for the sake of
what it brought me.'' His face showed now only
the smile; the frown had vanished. For a man
known for years to his friends as a ``hater of
women and all other confusion,'' Cyril Henshaw
was looking remarkably well-pleased with himself.

His wife of less than a year colored as she
met his gaze. Hurriedly she picked up her
needle.

The man laughed happily at her confusion.

``What are you doing? Is that my stocking?''
he demanded.

A look, half pain, half reproach, crossed her
face.

``Why, Cyril, of course not! You--you told
me not to, long ago. You said my darns made--
bunches.

``Ho! I meant I didn't want to _wear_ them,''
retorted the man, upon whom the tragic wretchedness
of that half-sobbed ``bunches'' had been
quite lost. ``I love to see you _mending_ them,''