Did you?" he queried.

Her antagonism lent a tartness to her reply.

"I never professed to go through a divinity school," she retorted. "If
I had, though----" Her pause was fraught with meaning.

He made no effort to discount the meaning. Instead,--

"I don't doubt it, Catia," he responded quietly. "However, as it
happens, I had some other things to think about."

That brought her to a momentary halt. However, she swiftly rallied.

"Some people can think of more than one thing at a time," she
announced, with something of the same accent in which, long years
before, she had ejaculated "Dirty-Face!"

But Brenton's mind was hungrily intent upon his paper. Not even two
years of Catia's corrective moods had taught him to grasp the fact that
she would never cease from her corrections until he had given evidence
of writhing underneath their sting. It was not enough for her to have
the last word; she must be left in a position to gloat upon its visible
effect. Else, wherein lay the pleasure of having given it utterance?
Brenton, with manlike unconsciousness of this great fact of feminine
psychology, once more buried himself in his morning paper. Promptly and
ruthlessly Catia exhumed him.

"Scott," she said, with a petulance which she permitted herself but
rarely, not so much for moral reasons as because the _Ladies' Galaxy_
had pronounced it bad for the complexion; "do put down that stupid paper
and attend to me."

"Yes, dear." And Brenton blinked a little, in the sudden change of
focus demanded of his eyes.

Catia only saw the blinking, and to herself she pronounced it a new and
ugly mannerism. She did not take the trouble to notice the eyes
themselves, to read the earnest desire to please her, written so
plainly in their luminous gray depths.

"Oh, do wake up!" she adjured him, with increasing impatience. "Scott,
do you know you never really come to life till after breakfast? Can't
you see I want to talk to you? Now do listen and answer me. What do you
mean to do about this Saint Peter's matter?"

"To do about it!" It was no especial wonder that the echo irritated
Catia; and yet neither was it any especial wonder that Scott, in his
astonishment, was betrayed into an echo of that sort. As yet, her
meaning was opaque to him.

"Yes, do about it," Catia echoed, in her turn. "They say there's sure
to be a vacancy, and that it's a splendid place."

"Who say?" Brenton queried cautiously.

"All the convocation. Don