What are their names?
They must have names."
"They are my great-grandfather Plunkett and his wife, on my father's
side. He was a common hangman."
"Now don't be idiotic, Fred."
"He was, my dear. It was you yourself who said it. Don't you remember
my calling two of your forbears a precious pair of donkeys because they
wouldn't eat any form of shell-fish, and your replying that, though I
was in the habit of grandiloquently describing my ancestor who used to
execute people as 'the sheriff of the county,' he was only a common
hangman?"
"Oh, was that the man? All I said was that if he had been _my_
ancestor instead of yours, you would have called him a hangman. He
_was_ sheriff of the county, wasn't he, dear?"
"So I have been taught to believe."
"'My ancestor, the high sheriff,' won't sound badly at all," she said,
jauntily.
"Especially if we can tone up the old gentleman's game eye a little."
Josephine's face expressed open admiration. "You are a genius and a
duck," she exclaimed; then, after a reflective pause, she murmured,
"Very likely he met with an accident just before he was painted."
"Yes, dear. Consequently, if the eye can't be improved by means of the
best modern artistic talent, the least we can do is to put a shade over
it."
This waggish remark seemed to be lost on Josephine.
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