I love the teasing — the gentle, loving teasing — that sometimes takes place between Derb and Rosie (Mrs. Derb, as you know). I tell the following story with permission (bien sûr).

It was about six years ago. We were down in the Caribbean, on a National Review cruise. British Virgin Islands, I think. We were on some kind of land tour, in a safari-like vehicle. John had acquired a piece of native — or native-seeming — headgear. He said, “I just hope I don’t look dorky in this hat.”

Rosie said — with priceless, perfect timing and inflection — “You, dorky?”

Wish you could have heard it. As the fearless Derb said to me today, “You can dent the armor of my dignity, but you can’t pierce it.”