“Of course,” said the lady, “you want to force my hand. You want that
flat in Hill Street, and that’s that.”
“Don’t you believe it,” said her squire. “I’m for peace in our time. If
you want The Eighty-nine Steps, you have ’em. If you want a midget
wash-house, say the blinkin’ word. After all, we can always cut the cork
mat down. I’m only out to——”
“You want that flat in Hill Street,” declared Julia. “And you’re out to
crab everything else. And I suppose by a process of exhaustion you’ll
get your way.”
Hubert Challenger sighed.
“‘Exhaustion’ is good,” he said wearily. “Never mind. Let me repeat, my
lady, that I do not care. I’ve criticized as a third party, purely to
facilitate your choice. As a future inhabitant of the kiosk, you can
count me out.”
“Don’t you take any interest in your own—your own——”
“Dunghill?” said Hubert cheerfully. His _fiancée_ stiffened. “To a
certain extent. But that extent has been reached.”
“Exactly,” observed Miss Willow. “It was reached in Hill Street.”
“I won’t say it wasn’t,” said Hubert. “First, because it was the
forty-second covert we had drawn, and, secondly, because the best is
good enough for me. When I’ve been offered a peach, you can bury the
cooking apples under the lilacs. But that’s neither here nor there. Bed
me down where you like, my dear, and I’ll be all grateful.”
“Let me congratulate you,” said Julia, “upon your sleight of tongue. Of
course, it’s been done before. ‘And whispering “I will ne’er
_dis_sent”—_dis_sented.’ Still, the way in which your preference for
Hill Street worms its way out of every protest you make is rather
precious. Never mind. I’ll try and ignore it.” Lazily she selected a
cigarette. “I think if we painted those pale doors black . . . and the
ceilings. . . .”
“And the walls,” said Hubert. “Don’t forget the walls.”
Miss Willow frowned.