Beatrice picked up her work again impatiently. I sneezed a third time.
"Is this more the sort of thing you want?" I said.
"What I say is that you couldn't have had hay-fever all the summer without people knowing."
"But, my dear Beatrice, people do know. In this quiet little suburb you are rather out of the way of the busy world. Rumours of war, depressions on the Stock Exchange, my hay-fever—these things pass you by. But the clubs are full of it. I assure you that, all over the country, England's stately homes have been plunged into mourning by the news of my sufferings, historic piles have bowed their heads and wept."
"I suppose you mean that in every house you've been to this summer you've told them that you had it, and they've been foolish enough to believe you."
"That's putting it a little crudely. What happens is—"
"Well, all I can say is, you know a very silly lot of people."
"What happens is that when the mahogany has been cleared of its polished silver and choice napery, and wine of a rare old vintage is circulating from hand to hand—"
"If they wanted to take any notice of you at all, they could have given you a bread poultice and sent you to bed."
"Then, as we impatiently bite the ends off our priceless Havanas—"