"Who is he? Does he do anything exciting?"
"He does, rather. You know those little riddles in the Christmas crackers?"
"Yes?"
"Yes. Well, he couldn't very well do those, because he's an electrical engineer."
"But why——"
"No, I didn't. I simply asked you if you knew them. And he plays the piano beautifully, and he's rather a good actor, and he never gets up till about ten. Because his room is next to mine, and you can hear everything, and I can hear him not getting up."
"That doesn't sound much like an electrical engineer. You ask him suddenly what amperes are a penny, and see if he turns pale. I expect he makes up the riddles, after all. Simpson only does the mottoes, I know. Now talk to Thomas for a bit while I drink my orange."
Five minutes elapsed, or transpired (whichever it is), before I was ready to talk again. Generally, after an orange, I want to have a bath and go straight off to bed, but this particular one had not been so all-overish as usual.
"Now then," I said, as I examined the crystallised fruit, "I'm with you in one minute."
Myra turned round and looked absently at me.