mitted by a really intelligent wife to carry on any dispute with her. The moment that he begins an argument she softly steps aside—or more accurately, side-steps—and "quotes Scripture," quotes this Hydra-headed monster, Whom it is sacrilege to mention by any other designation than the capitalized third person plural.
At the domestic fireside, argument, as distinguished from conviction, usually begins in a man's soul. In the intimate simplicity of his heart, moved only by considerations of comfort, personal taste, or the family budget, a man will begin thus:
"I believe, Dorothy, we'd better have another electric light put in the dining room, so that we can see a little better what we are taking in."
She will reply: "Oh, no, my dear; we'll do nothing of the sort. They are using candles now."
Or he will begin: "Well, Dotty old dear, I guess the old car will serve us another season, won't it?"
And she: "Why, John, how can you think so? It's quite impossible. They are using closed cars now."
Or the poor man will open a fireside rumination thus: "Do you know, Dorothy, when Kitty's in high school"
