Julia Stane Willow passed into the cool library, took off her hat,
pitched this on to a table, and flung herself into a chair.
“If you want a drink,” she said shortly, “toll the bell.”
Her _fiancé_ limped to the fireplace, dabbed at a button, turned, sank
into the depths of a sofa and closed his eyes.
“What a truly leprous day,” he murmured. “Six fly-blown flats and four
houses in five and a half hours. An’ I wouldn’t be seen dead in one of
them.”
Julia shook back her curls.
“That one in Sloane Street wasn’t so bad,” she said.
“What, the one with the pitch-pine doors and a bathroom like a priest’s
hole?”
“They weren’t pitch-pine,” said Julia. “They were maple. Besides, we
could easily have them painted. And I don’t like too big a bathroom.”
“Neither do I,” said Hubert Challenger. “But I hate not being able to
get off the cork mat. Why, I’ve been in more roomy limousines.”
“I don’t know what you do in a bathroom,” said Julia, “but I usually
bathe. So long as there’s room for a tub . . .”
“Ah, that’s the trouble,” said Hubert. “You see, I dry myself too.
Sometimes I even go so far as to put on a good-looking vest before
bursting once more upon an expectant world.”
“Of course, if you want a bathroom like the Albert Hall. . . .”
“I don’t,” said Hubert. “That would be too big.” His _fiancée_ choked.
“But the Sloane Street appendix isn’t even life-size. Standing in the
middle of it, I could bolt the door, lean out of the window, switch on
the light, turn on the bath, wash my hands in the basin, and change the
bulb—all without moving my feet. Besides, I think two bathrooms ’d earn
their keep.”
Julia frowned.
“The first house we saw had three.”
“Yes, and seven floors,” said Hubert. “If it had had a two-way escalator
and a couple of non-stop lifts. . . .”
Here a servant entered.
“Gin and ginger-beer?” said his hostess.
“Please.”
“Right,” said Julia. “And, Perkins, I’ll have some tea.”
“Very good, miss.”