"I don't understand," she said in the first months of their marriage.
"Are you afraid I won't be judicious, responsible? Mightn't you try
before judging?"

"Judicious? Responsible?" He pinched her cheek. (Judith was five feet
nine and sweetly sober of mien.) "There are no feminines or
diminutives of those words, my dear."

She stepped back. "But with more freedom I could manage better, Sam."

"Manage?"--jocularly. "That _is_ your long suit, isn't it? You
feel equal to managing all of us? Could even give me pointers on the
business, eh?"

"Why not?" she asked, quietly.

Sam, feet apart, hands in pockets, looked her over with the smile one
has for a dignified kitten. "I won't trouble you, my dear. I manage
this family." With his pleasantries a lower note struck--and jangled.

"But that isn't the point. I want--"

"Really? You always do. Don't bother to tell me what. If you got this
you'd be wanting something else, so what's the use of the expense
merely to change the object?" He chuckled at her baffled silence.

"I can't answer when you're like that. But--but, Sam! It isn't fair!"
Still she supposed that relevant.